Dolls of War

by Shirley Parenteau

  “We just have to keep our eye on his place a little longer,” Mrs. Farrell was explaining. “Mr. Oakes says his niece wants him to come to the valley to live with them, but he won’t budge. So she’s sending her boy — Cee-Cee, they call him — out to check on his great-uncle’s curtains and keep his bucket filled with sand.”

  “You’ll have company,” Papa said to Macy. Silently, she told herself she wouldn’t be around long enough to meet the nephew.

  “Papa, I should go home with you and make sure all our curtains are closed tightly every night.”

  Mr. Farrell chuckled, sounding friendlier. “Your Papa knows the danger as well as I do. Nobody needs to worry about us following the rules.”

  Mrs. Farrell put one hand on her husband’s arm, smiling at him in a proud way. “Emory’s doing everything he can to keep us safe. He even took all the glass floats I’d found on the beach over the years and shot them. They floated here from Japan, you know.”

  Macy swallowed a laugh. Maybe she was overtired, but she wanted to giggle at a mental image of glass balls lined up for targets with cartoon-style faces painted on them. No, he probably painted red suns on them and pretended the floats were Japanese planes.

  To keep the thought to herself, she asked seriously, “But didn’t the floats break loose from fishing nets long before the war? It must have taken years for them to drift all this way. Why shoot them?”

  “They look innocent,” Mr. Farrell said. “Thinking that way is the kind of mistake the Japs hope we’ll make. Those people plan way ahead, little miss. Any one of those floats might have been hiding a bomb.”

  There was no humor in Macy now. Her last hope for Miss Tokyo drained away. If Mr. Farrell saw bombs in harmless fishing floats, he wasn’t going to have kind thoughts for a Japanese doll. Somehow, she would have to keep the doll hidden the entire time she stayed here.

  First, she had to get Miss Tokyo from the car. “I brought my blanket from home,” she said, adding quickly, “I’ll sleep better with it over me.”

  Mr. Farrell frowned. “Most little girls grow out of needing a favorite blanket before they’re your age.”

  Papa surprised Macy by saying, “It’s a harmless comfort. I’ll bring it in.”

  “I’ll get it, Papa.” Macy rushed for the door, remembering to open it just a crack before slipping through.

  Outside, with rain falling and clouds making the night even darker, she moved carefully, feeling her way along the walk to the gate. The car loomed in the darkness. When she opened the back door into the familiar interior, still warm with the scent of home, tears nearly choked her.

  She wiped her cheeks with her damp coat sleeve before reaching into the car. After a bit of fumbling, she located the bundle with Miss Tokyo inside. She made sure the doll was completely covered by the blanket before she carried it to the house.

  Papa and the Farrells stood around the warm stove. They looked as if they’d been talking about something she shouldn’t hear and had stopped almost but not quite in time. She had heard disapproval in Mr. Farrell’s voice when he asked Papa, “When will you tell Macy?”

  She stopped just inside the door after making sure it was closed, wanting to ask, Tell me what? She bit the words back. She would wait until she was alone with Papa. “May I put this on my bed?”

  “You’ll be sleeping upstairs.” Mr. Farrell took the two suitcases Papa had set on the floor and walked ahead of Macy into a hall and up a narrow staircase. Macy held the bundle more tightly. All the way up the stairs after Mr. Farrell, she pictured him discovering Miss Tokyo and whipping out his gun.

  Mr. Farrell opened the door on the left of a narrow landing and, after checking the window curtain, turned on a small lamp. The room she would be using was under the eaves, with the ceiling starting low on each side and sloping up to a peak in the center. Flowered wallpaper kept the wind from coming through any cracks.

  Beds stood against each wall. Macy warned herself not to sit up suddenly and knock her head on the low ceiling.

  Mr. Farrell nodded at the bundle clutched in her arms. “Do you need help with that?”

  “No!” Then she added with the warmest smile she could manage, “Thank you, Mr. Farrell.”

  The moment he left her alone in the room, she slipped the doll and the roll of blanket beneath the bed, pushing them as far toward the wall as she could. “I’m sorry, Miss Tokyo, but you have to hide.”

  Mrs. Farrell had looked to her like a careful housekeeper who would make sure to sweep beneath every bed. This would not be a safe hiding place for long.

  In her mind, Mama was looking down at the doll and wringing her hands with worry. “It will be all right,” Macy promised both the doll and Mama. “I’ll look for a better place tomorrow.”

  When she hurried downstairs, dinner was on the big table at the kitchen end of the front room. She felt hunger rumble in her stomach and was glad to slip onto a wooden chair.

  By the time they’d finished a bowl of thick onion-and-potato chowder with tender homemade biscuits, the Farrells were yawning. “We’re used to early bedtime around here,” Mr. Farrell said.

  Mrs. Farrell rose from the table. “You and your father will be sleeping upstairs, dear. Come along now and help me hang a blanket down the middle of the room to give you both your privacy. Shall we use the special blanket you brought with you?”

  No!” Macy would have clutched the blanket and Miss T close, but they were upstairs under the bed. “It’s . . . not big enough.”

  “It’s not?” Mrs. Farrell’s eyebrows rose. “It looked hefty when you carried it in.”

  Macy stood as if frozen while thoughts rushed through her head, none of them answers for Mrs. Farrell. At any moment, Mr. Farrell would demand to see the blanket and everything would be ruined. Why hadn’t she thought to hide the doll in the museum, maybe in the sarcophagus with the mummy? But the lid was so heavy. And the mummy would be dusty. . . .

  She saw Mrs. Farrell’s expression become gentle. “I understand,” the woman said. “The blanket is a bit of home. You want it warm beneath your cheek, not hanging out in the cold.”

  Macy nodded, daring to hope her secret would still be safe.

  “You’re exhausted, poor child.” Mrs. Farrell patted Macy’s shoulder. “The bathroom is off the kitchen. I’ve left a clean washcloth beside the basin and a toothbrush in case you forgot to bring one. Go ahead and wash up. I’ll have an extra blanket hung up for a curtain by the time you’re ready to climb into bed.”

  Macy hurried through her preparations, then rushed up the stairs. Relief made her knees wobble when she saw that Mrs. Farrell was just finishing pinning a pink cotton blanket to a clothesline stretched from the middle of the window to the middle of the upper door frame.

  “We each have our own little room now,” Macy said, and impulsively hugged the woman. “Thank you, Mrs. Farrell.”

  Mrs. Farrell hugged her back. “You’re very welcome, dear. Say your prayers and hop into bed. You’ll be starting school tomorrow, so that will be another busy day for you.”

  Once into her nightgown and alone upstairs, Macy scrambled across her bed and peered into the dark crack next to the wall. “Good night,” she whispered. “Don’t worry, Miss T. I’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

  Papa came up the stairs a little later. Macy called a soft good-night as the bedsprings beyond the hanging blanket squeaked beneath his weight. Rain drumming on the roof lulled her to sleep far more quickly than she expected.

  She woke early, sitting straight up, calling, “Mama!”

  It took a moment to realize she had been dreaming. In the dream, Mama was trapped under her wheelchair and calling for her. That was dumb. Mama was safe in heaven. She wasn’t trapped and she didn’t need the wheelchair anymore.

  Even so, Macy slid closer to the wall and slipped her hand down to feel the familiar bulk of the Japanese doll wrapped in the blanket. “Mama’s safe, Miss T. We just have to get used to this new place.”

  F
rom the doorway, Mrs. Farrell said, “Do you have an imaginary friend, dear? Someone named Misty?”

  Macy squirmed upright. “No, I don’t . . .” She trailed off. Mrs. Farrell hadn’t guessed about the doll. Wasn’t it better for her to think there was an invisible playmate, even though that was something a younger girl would have?

  Mrs. Farrell smiled. “Misty is more of a name for a puppy, but I suppose since she’s invisible, it doesn’t matter what your friend is called.”

  Macy looked toward the other bed. The curtain between them was pulled back to the window, and the blankets were folded neatly at the foot. A dream-like memory came back to her of Papa coming in very early to kiss her forehead and say good-bye. He’d said something else. She frowned, thinking hard. That he would be in touch. That was it. He’d left her with a promise, one she would cling to.

  “Your papa wanted you to rest this morning,” Mrs. Farrell said, “but we’ll need to get you into school before the first bell rings. Mr. Farrell will drive you over on his way to work. Breakfast is waiting downstairs.”

  Macy mentally winced at the thought of a new school, a school where she was expected to start over and never talk about Miss Tokyo. “Papa can drive me.”

  “He left at daybreak, dear. He wanted to get an early start back to the valley. Do you need help with your clothes?”

  “No. I’ll be right down.” She heard more in her voice, and based on the worried furrow over Mrs. Farrell’s eyes, she’d heard it, too: a silent wail. I’m left here with people I don’t know. When will Papa come back for me?

  Why hadn’t she asked him? But she’d been so sleepy she barely remembered his telling her good-bye.

  We all have to do our part for the war. She remembered Miss Rasmussen saying that before she left to join the WAACS. My part is to keep Miss Tokyo safe for the kids who will visit her in the museum someday, Macy decided, and that means staying here for now.

  As Mrs. Farrell walked down the stairs, Macy pulled the journal from under her pillow. She needed to find a safe place to keep it. For now, in case Mrs. Farrell accidentally saw the last entries, she wrote carefully, Dear Mama, it’s nice to be at the beach again. From my bedroom, I can hear the rumble of the waves. The Farrells are very kind.

  After tucking the journal away, Macy slid out from under the warm patchwork quilt and padded over a thin rug to the window. She looked out on a freshly rainwashed world. To the north, a small lake gleamed blue beyond a fringe of willow trees.

  The double windows opened outward. When she leaned through them to look west, she could see over low trees all the way to the roofs of cottages on the rise of the dune between the highway and the sand.

  The beach was so near, the ocean sounded even louder. She could smell it. How soon could she explore? After school?

  A man came from the small cottage across the road. The collar was turned up on a long black coat that hung almost to his ankles. Despite the coat, he looked cold. When he walked along the road, Macy heard the jingle of small bells.

  She looked more closely. The man wore a striped knit cap with little bells tied into a tassel on the top. “Old Mr. Oakes,” she breathed. That’s who he was, old Mr. Oakes who wasn’t careful enough with his blackout curtains. But what a funny cap for an old man!

  Mr. Farrell had said people were beginning to think Mr. Oakes let light gleam past his blackout curtains on purpose. She knew — she wasn’t sure how, but she knew — they were wrong. Old Mr. Oakes was not a traitor. “He’s not a spy,” she said aloud, turning toward Miss Tokyo under the bed. “People don’t trust him and it isn’t fair. I think Mr. Oakes is a lot like me.”

  When she slipped into place at the large table at the far end of the front room, a big bowl of crunchy cereal was already waiting. As Mrs. Farrell poured milk into the bowl, she asked, “Have you eaten puffed rice before?”

  Macy scooped her spoon beneath several of the puffs. “Rice?”

  Mr. Farrell sat at the head of the table with a plate full of bacon and eggs, but his attention was on a stand nearby and a big square box with a lot of tubes and dials. He twisted a dial past a burst of radio static as he glanced at Macy. “They shoot the rice from guns to get it puffed like that.”

  “Guns?” Macy looked at the rice in her bowl. How did that work?

  Mrs. Farrell chuckled. “That’s their motto — rice shot from guns — but I doubt they mean the kind of guns our soldiers use. As I understand it, the cereal makers get the rice wet so it will steam when they heat it under pressure. When they release the pressure, the rice pops into these puffs.”

  “Like popcorn?” Macy tasted the rice and decided she liked it. “Do they sell it at your grocery store?”

  “The Watkins Man stopped by with his van full of spices and such yesterday,” Mrs. Farrell explained. “Puffed rice isn’t rationed, so I bought a bag. I thought it would be something special to welcome you into our family.”

  “That was nice of you,” Macy said, glad she liked the puffed rice. As she raised another spoonful, she remembered to add, “Thank you, Mrs. Farrell.”

  “Oh, that’s so formal,” Mrs. Farrell said quickly. “Why don’t you just call me Aunt Ida? I know we’re not blood related, but we’ll pretend.”

  “I’d like that,” Macy said, meaning it. Maybe living here wouldn’t be so awful after all.

  A room-shaking burst of static blared from Mr. Farrell’s box.

  “Mercy!” Mrs. Farrell exclaimed.

  Mr. Farrell turned a dial to get past the racket. Macy couldn’t help asking, “What kind of radio is that?”

  “This is called a shortwave radio,” he answered. “Our regular radio announcers just tell us what they think we should hear. With this, I’ll hear what people all over the world are saying.”

  All over the world! Macy marveled at the thought that voices could travel so far on radio waves, although Mr. Farrell was just getting a lot of awful noise.

  She had hoped to meet Mr. Oakes, but after breakfast Mr. Farrell hustled her into his Chevrolet sedan for a ride to school. “You’ll be walking after today,” he warned when he pulled to a stop in front of a white school with a bell tower. “This is just a mile or so down the highway from the house, not far.”

  Macy nodded, her attention on the two-story wood building. It didn’t look like the school she was used to. Suddenly, she felt the way she had last night when Papa parked the car outside the Farrells’ tall dark house.

  “Come along,” Mr. Farrell said. “You don’t want to be late on your first day.”

  Macy clutched the lunch bag Aunt Ida had handed her and hurried up the walk after him. The school office was just inside the front door. Registration went quickly, but the first bell rang before she’d finished answering questions.

  Mr. Farrell had gone by then, leaving her to Mrs. Johansen, a pleasant middle-aged secretary wearing a hand-crocheted sweater over her cotton dress. Once the paperwork was done, the secretary pointed her toward a sixth-grade classroom. “Just go in there, dear. Your teacher’s name is Miss Ross. Hand this slip to her.”

  The empty hallway seemed to stretch longer at both ends than it had when she came in with Mr. Farrell. She wanted to run for the front door, but now it looked far away. Feeling as if moths fluttered inside her chest, she opened the classroom door Mrs. Johansen had indicated and stepped inside. Nearly a dozen students looked up from their desks.

  Macy’s steps sounded loud on the wood floor as she walked to the teacher and handed her the admission slip. People whispered and stared while Miss Ross read the note.

  The teacher rapped her desk for attention. “Class, please say hello to our new student, Macy James.”

  The entire class replied in singsongy voices, “Hello, Macy James,” followed by several giggles and one spitball while Miss Ross was directing Macy to an empty desk.

  Worry settled like wave-washed stones in Macy’s stomach. She missed Lily. She would even be glad to see Christopher Adams!

  A girl at the desk
ahead of hers turned around. “I’m Linda.” She looked closely at Macy. “When are you going back to your own school?”

  Macy wondered if Linda had thrown the spitball. “Not as soon as I want to.”

  Linda grinned. “Then we might as well be friends.”

  Macy felt the coldness inside begin to ebb as she smiled back. “Guess we might as well.”

  Linda added, “I like your necklace.”

  Macy heard pride in her voice when she answered. “Thanks. My brother sent it to me. He’s in the navy.”

  But she wouldn’t tell Linda or anyone else about Miss Tokyo. A tight feeling rippling through her body warned that she had saved the doll from the neighbors in Stanby and brought her somewhere even more dangerous.

  No, Macy decided. Miss Tokyo is not going to be in danger, because from this moment on, they’ll call me the most patriotic girl in town.

  She leaned forward to whisper to Linda. “I’m going to start a scrap drive like Little Orphan Annie in the funny papers. Do you want to be one of Annie’s Junior Commandos with me?”

  Linda swung around again. “Yes! The president says we all have to do our part.”

  “We’ll earn our stripes by collecting scrap,” Macy said, remembering more of the president’s advice.

  Across the aisle, a girl whispered, “Can I do it, too?”

  Macy realized that whispers were going all around the room, but this time they sounded friendly. A boy a row over called, “It’s not just for girls, you know. Boys can collect scrap, too.”

  Miss Ross clapped her hands for silence. “Class, please settle down.” She nodded at Macy. “A scrap drive is an excellent idea, but please make plans outside of school, not during our history lesson.”

  The boy behind Macy tugged the back of her hair. “I’m in, too. Don’t forget.”