Dolls of War

by Shirley Parenteau

  Macy thought of Nick training to go to sea and shivered. “Almost every family in town has someone fighting. I want them all to come home.”

  “They will,” Lily said with confidence. “Now that our boys are in it, they’ll put a quick end to the war. You’ll see. I’ll bet they come home before school lets out for the summer.”

  Macy hoped so, but she’d heard Papa talking with Miss Rasmussen about the last war, the one they still called the Great War. They’d even called it the War to End All Wars. They couldn’t say that anymore. Now that one was called World War I. More men had died fighting in it than Macy could even imagine. She didn’t want to think about men dying again in World War II.

  Nick was on a ship, not wading ashore with enemy bullets coming at him, she reminded herself. He’d be safe. He had to be! She wasn’t sure what Hap would be doing as a marine, but he’d promised to be safe.

  “Look!” Lily grabbed Macy’s sleeve. “There’s Christopher across the street with Mark. Do you think they see us?”

  “They do now,” Macy exclaimed. “You’ve dragged me almost into the street to make sure!”

  As the two boys dodged a Studebaker with a Christmas tree tied to the top, Mark called out, “Christmas shopping?”

  “Just looking,” Macy answered, watching the Studebaker turn a corner. Papa hadn’t gone out to cut a tree yet. Could he have forgotten? They’d gone with Mama every year to find a tree and shop for a special ornament, even last year, with Mama smiling from her wheelchair.

  Macy understood why Papa hadn’t suggested getting an ornament this year. She didn’t really want one to remind her of the first Christmas without Mama, or Nick.

  But everybody put up a tree. And it was almost Christmas.

  Macy swung around to Lily. “Can I go with you when your father takes you to get a tree? I think Papa forgot.”

  Lily’s eyes widened. “We’ve had our tree up for a week.” She paused, her eyes filling with understanding. “You could spend Christmas with us.”

  “Thanks, but I’m going to remind Papa that we need to get a tree.” Macy turned away. The boys had almost reached them. The last thing she wanted was for either of them to feel sorry for her.

  As if they would!

  “We’re headed for the movies,” Christopher said as he and Mark stepped onto the sidewalk. “There’s a Groucho Marx show on.”

  Mark added to Lily, “You and the Jap lover wanna come along?”

  Christopher elbowed Mark, but shrugged as if he agreed. Macy stuck her tongue out at both of them. A snowflake landed on it and she giggled. She couldn’t stay mad with a snowflake on her tongue.

  “I can’t see a movie,” she told them when the snowflake had dissolved. “I have something important I have to ask my father.”

  “About stowing the Jap doll in a closet?” Mark asked. He grunted when Christopher shoved him harder.

  Lily finished checking her purse for money for a movie ticket. With a wave to Macy, she headed with the boys down the street toward a marquee glowing with neon lights.

  So much for Christopher liking her. That didn’t matter. Macy had to take care of something far more important than a movie.

  Papa was working at his desk in the study at home when she brought in a box of ornaments from the storage room. “I’m ready to decorate, Papa. Where will we put our tree?”

  He looked as if she’d slammed the door instead of elbowing her way past it with the box. “Put them away.”

  “Can we have just a small tree, Papa? I’ll do all the decorating.” She lowered the box to the floor and pulled out the first ornament. It was a little bell from Mama’s childhood in Japan. It always had a special place on the tree.

  Two lines deepened in Papa’s forehead. “There’s a war on. Things are different. We’ll have to do without a lot of things for a while.”

  “Without a Christmas tree?” She heard her voice rise. Everybody had a Christmas tree. “Even with the war, Christmas will come.”

  “We don’t need a tree when your brother can’t be here.” As Papa looked at the bell in her hand, Macy saw pain behind his eyes for more than Nick. Christmas had been a special time for all of them, but especially for Papa and Mama. Even last year, with Mama so sick, they had laughed gently together over memories brought to them by the bell.

  I haven’t been thinking enough about Papa, Macy scolded herself. Every one of Mama’s ornaments must make him sadder.

  On impulse, she ran to him and hugged him. “I love you, Papa. We still have each other.”

  She pulled away quickly when she didn’t feel a response, but when she reached the door, he called, “Macy.”

  It sounded strange because he hadn’t used her name for so long. She stopped and turned slowly, hardly daring to hope he’d changed his mind.

  His eyes were shadowed, but she saw him make an attempt to smile. Maybe he was really seeing her at last. Maybe he was realizing that the two of them could make a special Christmas together.

  Instead, he said, “Talk to Lily. Her folks will let you join them Christmas Day. It will be good for you to be with friends.”

  “People should be with their own family at Christmas,” Macy said. She understood, but felt hurt too deep to hide. How could Papa want to send her away on such an important holiday? She couldn’t help adding, “Families should be together at Christmas. Under their own Christmas tree.”

  Papa had turned back to his ledger. Macy didn’t think he’d even heard her. With dragging steps, she went across the lawn to the museum to sit on the floor beside Miss Tokyo. “Papa says we can’t have a tree. I guess everyone will have Christmas but us.”

  She was so used to talking for Miss Tokyo and guessing what the doll would say that words came without thought as she answered in the high voice she always gave the doll. “Nick and his friends won’t have a family Christmas, either. Do you think he has a tree?”

  “No.” Macy stared at her fingers curled into fists in her lap. Then she raised her head. “But he can have Christmas cookies! I’ll make him some. I’ll make so many he can share with friends and they can all have Christmas together!”

  When she ran from the museum to her kitchen, she smelled spices and brown sugar. As Macy came in, Miss Rasmussen offered a twist of paper filled with white frosting.

  “There may not be a tree in this house,” she said with a sparkle in her eyes, “but no family of mine is going to miss out on gingerbread men at Christmas.”

  Macy made a show of breathing in the spicy smells. “I love gingerbread. Nick does, too.”

  “Be sure to frost smiles on those cookie faces,” Miss Rasmussen said. “I’ve seen too many turned-down mouths around here lately.”

  Macy knew her own mouth was curved up in a smile as happy as the ones she carefully squeezed through the frosting tube. “Let’s make a lot of them, Miss Rasmussen. I want to send some to Nick to share with his friends.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea. Your papa can’t possibly object.”

  “He won’t. It’s for Nick.” That was true, but Macy wished she hadn’t said it out loud. A cloud seemed to pass through Miss Rasmussen’s eyes. Then she put a warm hand on Macy’s shoulder. “Honey, we can bake all day if you like. There’s talk of rationing, but it hasn’t happened yet.”

  “That’s what Mr. Bradford said.” Macy pushed down a rise of disappointment in the grocer. “Do the army and navy cooks need the sugar and shortening?”

  “Not only the cooks. It’s a puzzle to me, but they’re saying fat is used to make ammunition.”

  Macy looked up in surprise. “How can fat make cookies and bullets?”

  Miss Rasmussen chuckled. “I’m sure it’s complicated, but they’re telling us three pounds of fat will provide glycerin enough for one pound of gunpowder.”

  “What about sugar? Are they making sugar bullets?”

  As Macy giggled, Miss Rasmussen rolled her eyes. “Sugar comes from hot countries like Brazil, way down in South America. I expect
they need the ships to carry war goods, so they won’t be able to transport as much sugar as usual.”

  Macy felt silly for joking. “Should we stop making cookies?”

  “No, honey,” Miss Rasmussen assured her. “Nothing’s rationed yet. And when it is, we’ll do just fine.”

  As Macy squeezed frosting smiles and buttons and sometimes bows or belts onto a lengthening line of gingerbread people, she hoped Miss Rasmussen was right, but she couldn’t worry about the war for long. Her heart ached for a Christmas tree.

  Maybe she could have one. If fat could make gunpowder, could sugar make a Christmas tree? “Miss Rasmussen,” she said slowly, “last year, one of the ladies made a fancy gingerbread church for the friendship hour after service. It even had a sugar cross on the top.”

  “A lot of work went into that church,” Miss Rasmussen said.

  “I suppose it was hard and took a lot of time, but . . . do you think we could make a gingerbread Christmas tree?”

  Miss Rasmussen licked a crumb from her fingertip, then smiled. “I don’t see why not.”

  Luke, the lanky middle-aged gardener and handyman, sauntered through the outside door and leaned a narrow packing tube against a chair. “I smelled gingerbread baking all the way across the yard.”

  “I suppose you’re planning to talk us out of a cookie,” Miss Rasmussen said, pretending to sound severe.

  “Or two.” Luke sprawled onto the chair. “Two would be just about right with a cup of your good coffee.”

  She was already pouring. Macy grinned. Miss Rasmussen pretended to be annoyed by the gardener, but she liked hearing compliments to her cooking.

  “Guess what we’re going to do,” Macy said to Luke.

  “Hmm.” He tilted his head as if thinking. “The two of you aren’t planning to run off and join the army, are you?”

  “No!” Macy laughed. “We’re going to build a Christmas tree. From gingerbread.”

  Did that sound silly? She waited for him to tease her about baking a cookie tree, but he looked thoughtful instead. “Gingerbread? Brings to mind a tree I saw in a bakery window in Portland last year.”

  “Was it gingerbread?” Maybe her idea wasn’t silly after all.

  “No.” Luke accepted a cup of steaming coffee from Miss Rasmussen and smiled his thanks for a plate holding two fat gingerbread men. “This tree was made of frosted sugar cookies. The baker set six-pointed stars together on a dowel with smaller and smaller stars all the way to the top.”

  “With decorations?” Macy asked, trying to imagine the tree.

  “Sugar crystals sparkled over white-frosted branches,” Luke said. “But I don’t see why you couldn’t put little birds or something on the branches, as long as you didn’t eat them.”

  “That must have been a pretty tree,” Miss Rasmussen said. She looked at Macy. “I believe we have a jar of sugar crystals.”

  “Can we make one? It would be so pretty!” Macy clasped her hands together. “But we don’t have a dowel.”

  “The hardware store has dowels in all sizes,” Luke assured her. “You just decide how tall you need the tree to be, and I’ll nail a proper-sized dowel to a base to keep your tree standing straight and pretty.”

  From the doorway, Papa asked, “What tree? What’s going on in here?”

  Cookies, Mr. James,” Miss Rasmussen said cheerfully. “We’re baking cookies to send to Nick so he and his friends at the training base can share some of our Christmas.”

  Papa cleared his throat. “Good idea. Nick always likes gingerbread.”

  Luke put down his coffee cup. “Here’s your world map, Mr. J. The stationery store was almost out. I guess everyone’s tracking the battles.”

  Papa opened the tube and drew out a rolled map. “Give me a hand with this, Luke. We’ll tack it on the wall there above the buffet.”

  Miss Rasmussen hurried to remove a painting of Professor Stanby to make room for the map. She placed the painting on folded napkins in a drawer of the buffet while Papa and Luke stretched the map on the wall and secured it with tacks.

  “I’ve been keeping a list of where troops are fighting,” Papa said. “Did you get colored thumbtacks, Luke?”

  The handyman brought out a small cardboard box from a jacket pocket. “Right here, Mr. J.” He opened the box and set it on the buffet. “I bought map pins so the tops won’t hide the names of towns, rivers, and such.”

  They all watched in silence as Papa consulted a list compiled from radio reports. He chose pins with red tops for enemy forces and gold ones for American troops. “It’s not as current as I’d like, but censors are keeping a tight lid on news from the front.”

  Macy felt her heart beating faster. Just looking at the map scared her. She swallowed hard. She was glad Nick and Hap were still in training somewhere safe.

  “Papa,” Macy said when Luke had left, “would you help frost smiles on the gingerbread men? We’re making a lot of them. For Nick.”

  She expected him to refuse, but he looked at the tray of cookies with a faint smile at the corners of his mouth. “It’s been a long time since I’ve frosted a cookie.”

  “Then it’s time you remembered how,” Miss Rasmussen said while Macy held her breath. “Sit down there beside your daughter while I make up a frosting tube for you.”

  She picked up a triangle of parchment paper and with a few quick twists shaped it into a tube with one end open and the other a narrow point. She scooped in vanilla frosting, rolled the paper over the end, clipped the point, and handed the tube to Papa, all in what seemed like half a second.

  Macy smiled to herself, thinking Miss Rasmussen hadn’t given Papa time to come up with an excuse. With the frosting tube in hand, he sank into the chair next to Macy. She pushed a cookie man over to him.

  His smile flickered again. “I guess I can take time to frost one for Nick.”

  Macy was afraid, from Miss Rasmussen’s set mouth, that she was going to suggest he frost one for his daughter, too, but the housekeeper wisely stayed silent.

  The next day, Macy began her tree. Luke had fastened a new wood dowel to a base. She only had to layer cookie stars over it for branches, starting with the biggest star she could fit on a cookie sheet.

  White royal frosting dried like polish and sparkled with the sugar crystals she sprinkled over each branch. She was tempted to take a bite but remembered, This will be our Christmas tree.

  The finished tree stood over a foot high, the lower branches reaching past the edges of the plate holding the dowel on its base. Macy put blobs of colored frosting on the sparkling branches for ornaments, and even found a blue sugar bird among Miss Rasmussen’s decorating supplies.

  “I wish I could bring it over so you could see it,” she told Miss Tokyo later at the museum, “but it would be awful if I dropped it. A lot of work went into that tree.” She paused before adding, “Do you think Papa will like it?”

  In the doll’s high voice, she answered, “Oh yes, Macy-chan. When he sees how pretty you made the tree, he will say you did a good job.”

  “He probably won’t say it,” Macy admitted in her own voice. “But maybe he’ll think it.”

  On Christmas Eve, the tree stood proudly in the center of the table. Macy set out Mama’s best china. The entire dining room seemed to glow. For Christmas dinner the next day, Miss Rasmussen had promised to bring over some of the turkey she would roast in her parents’ oven across the street. Tonight, Macy and Papa sat down to baked fish, boiled potatoes with butter, and a wedge each of iceberg lettuce topped with creamy French dressing.

  Macy held her breath when Papa looked at the tree. “So you finished it.”

  “Yes.” She waited for praise. When he looked more interested in his serving of fish, she added, “It took a lot of time.”

  He nodded and reached for the nearby radio to tune in the latest war news. Nick wasn’t even in the war yet. Couldn’t Papa leave the radio off just for Christmas Eve?

  Macy didn’t want to make matters w
orse by asking. Instead, she kept her eyes away from the war map on the wall and tried to steer the conversation to the cookie tree. “Tomorrow we can eat it. We’ve never had a Christmas tree we could eat before.”

  The radio announcer was talking about fighting in the Philippines. Macy wasn’t sure Papa even heard her.

  Hours later, Macy sat on her windowsill, looking out at the stars whenever the clouds broke enough to show them. She and Mama had always claimed the brightest one as their own Christmas star. Nick teased that they were claiming a planet, but it didn’t matter. It was bright. It was beautiful. It would do.

  There! That was the one. She blew a kiss toward the sky and whispered, “Do you see our star, Mama? Of course you do. Let’s make a special Christmas wish together, the way we’ve done ever since I was little. This year, I’m going to wish for an end to the fighting so Nick and Hap can come home.”

  She watched the star, wishing with all her heart. When she realized tears were rolling down her face and that she was cold in her nightgown, she reached for the window to pull it shut.

  Then, she added to Mama, “I’ve been talking with Miss Tokyo, telling her all about the Christmases we used to have and the one we’re having now. It’s different and sad without you and Nick here, but we’re doing all right, Mama: Papa and me and Miss Tokyo. Don’t worry about us.”

  Even so, when she woke on Christmas morning, instead of jumping to her feet as she usually would, Macy pulled the blanket over her head. What was the point of getting up when Mama and Nick were gone? There wouldn’t even be a real tree with Mama’s ornaments on the green branches and presents underneath.

  Through the blanket, she smelled Miss Rasmussen’s pancakes. On special days, the housekeeper grated chocolate into the batter. Macy smelled chocolate now. She couldn’t help smiling as she pushed back the blankets.

  Sure enough. She could see the dining table through the doorway as she came down the stairs. A plate heaped with pancakes waited beside the cookie tree. Macy drew in a deep breath of warm chocolate and crispy-edged pancakes. “That smells so good!”