In her head, the doll’s high voice answered, “Do not worry, Macy-chan. I know you will come for me.”
“Soon,” Macy promised. “Soon, I hope. Now I need to get Mr. Oakes’s tin cans.”
Mr. Oakes came outside to help load his big pile of empty cans into the baby buggy. They worked together to fasten the blanket over the cans to keep the wind from blowing them away. Macy thanked him for letting her take them and silently thanked him again for turning her near-lie to Aunt Ida into a truth.
“When do you expect your great-nephew?” she asked as they loaded the buggy.
Mr. Oakes settled his striped knit cap lower over his ears as if the cold bothered him. The little bells on top jingled, making Macy smile despite herself. “Pretty soon, I should think,” he answered. “Cee-Cee’s mother says folk here have contacted her, worried about my light spilling out at night.”
Who had contacted the nephew’s mother? Macy wondered. The Farrells? Didn’t they know she ran out each evening to check Mr. Oakes’s curtains and warn him if light showed? Maybe they did know and meant to spare her.
Mr. Oakes turned his grimace into a smile, as if determined to make the best of a difficult situation. “Cee-Cee will be good company. For you, too, I expect. You must be about the same age.”
“He’ll be in my class, then. And looking for tin cans.” She couldn’t help glancing at her loaded baby buggy. “Maybe I should leave some for him.”
“No, Miss Macy, you take those along. He can wait. I’ll be opening twice as many once he gets here with his growing boy’s appetite.”
Macy wanted to say that the boy named Cee-Cee would expect more than canned soup, but she didn’t dare offer Aunt Ida’s homemade bread without asking first. “I’d better go, then,” she said instead, adding quickly, “Thank you.”
As she pushed the buggy over the rough gravel to the highway and alongside it toward town, she wondered about Cee-Cee. I hope he’s nice. He’s sure to be nicer than Christopher Adams.
But that wasn’t fair. In his own way, Christopher had been nice. Sometimes. Rarely, but sometimes. Why was she even thinking of him? He probably wasn’t thinking of her at all.
When her nightly check showed light slanting from Mr. Oakes’s window again, Macy ran through a light rain and knocked on the door. He opened it, and she pointed past him to a stack of books on the windowsill holding the curtain off-kilter.
Mr. Oakes shook his head. “I get distracted and set them down wherever I happen to be. Many thanks for noticing, Miss Macy.”
When he walked over to the window to straighten the curtain, Macy leaned curiously into the room. “You sure have a lot of books.”
“My great pleasure and biggest fault,” he said, smiling. “I often catch the Greyhound bus up on the highway and ride to our county seat at Tillamook to browse through bookstores.”
He turned to a table and picked up a book with a glossy cover. “I found this one for you. You mentioned enjoying your mother’s book of pictures from Japan. Maybe you’ll like this.”
He held out the book with a cloud of cherry blossoms on the cover. Macy felt her mouth shape a silent Oh. Inside, picture after picture showed shrines, temples, and masses of blossoming trees. “Thank you.” She clasped the book close. “I can almost feel Mama looking through it with me.”
“It’s my thanks to you,” he said, “for keeping an eye on my blackout problem.”
She looked through the book again, but clapped it shut with a sudden awful thought. “I won’t be able to keep it. The Farrells hate Japanese things.”
“Keep the book here, then,” he said. “My porch is usually sheltered from the rain. You’re welcome to sit out there and look through your book any time you like.”
She felt as if a blackout curtain couldn’t dim her smile as she thanked him again and handed the book back for safekeeping. Happiness stayed with her all the way home to her chores.
The Farrells had agreed to set a daily time limit to clearing the garden and rolling bandages. Once her work was finished, Macy was free to do as she wished until supper and homework. Of course, she was not to venture near the beach by herself, since the enemy might invade at any time, according to Uncle Emory.
Aunt Ida hesitated when Macy explained that Mr. Oakes had invited her to read books from his collection, but as long as Macy promised to remain on the porch, she agreed. Uncle Emory said he was relieved to learn that the many trips Mr. Oakes made on the Greyhound bus were to explore bookstores and not to meet with a group of spies, as some people feared.
Macy almost smiled at that, thinking what Papa might say about Uncle Emory’s fears. Still, she heard the war reports on the shortwave radio. The war was terrible. Maybe she should take those fears seriously.
What would Hap think of her enjoying pictures of beautiful places in Japan? The question came suddenly. Hap had died because of enemy soldiers from the land of beautiful shrines and blossoming trees.
“Angry people make the most noise,” she said softly. “Nobody hears from the gentle people who live there, too, people like the doll maker who made Miss Tokyo. Hap loved Miss Tokyo. He would understand.”
Her corner on Mr. Oakes’s porch was comfortably out of the rain so often streaming from the eaves. She nestled in a big rattan chair on a cushion Mr. Oakes kept dry in his cabin until she came for it. While she listened to the rain, she imagined herself walking through a tunnel of blossoming cherry trees. She was careful not to imagine falling bombs or the sound of rifles among those trees. She carried her journal in her pocket and wrote short notes from her cozy corner.
The Farrells’ woodpile grew smaller near the back door. The potbelly stove in the front room took a steady supply, but there was still a safe amount between the kitchen and Miss Tokyo.
“Macy,” Aunt Ida said after only a week of afternoon free time spent on Mr. Oakes’s front porch, “it’s too wet to work in the garden, but before you leave today, please bring in an armload of firewood.”
“Right away, Aunt Ida.” Macy pulled on her coat and started for the garage.
Aunt Ida called after her, “Take wood from the far end this time, dear. Uncle Emory will be ordering another load next week. We may as well begin clearing space for it at the back.”
Macy was glad she was turned away so Aunt Ida wouldn’t see the shock on her face. Miss Tokyo had to be moved. She had to be moved now.
In the garage, Macy pulled the firewood from on top of Miss Tokyo. She carried the wood into the house, then hurried back. Her stomach clenched with fear that Uncle Emory would come into the garage and find the doll wrapped in the tarp.
What to do with her? She stood by the woodpile and glanced around. Many people kept spaces like this crowded with castoffs of all kinds, but Aunt Ida wasn’t the sort to keep everything. There was nowhere to leave the doll where she wouldn’t be noticed at once.
The rattan buggy might be the answer. No one would wonder why she was pushing it away from the house. They were used to seeing her with it.
Quickly, Macy pulled the buggy from the corner where she’d left it. She settled Miss Tokyo inside, but now what? Could she cover the doll with cans and say she was waiting for enough to fill the buggy before turning them in? Did Mr. Oakes have enough for that?
As she pushed the buggy across the road, she knew in her heart that this plan wasn’t going to work. She couldn’t think of anything else to do.
The buggy bumped over rough weeds and rocks to the back where her neighbor tossed his empty cans. There weren’t very many.
Macy considered the small cabin held above the ground by a wood foundation with spaces between the supports. Could she push the doll beneath the cabin? Would rats chew Miss Tokyo’s kimono?
Shivering, Macy rubbed tears from her face, tears she hadn’t been aware of crying.
From the open doorway, Mr. Oakes called out to her. “Child, what is it?”
She looked at him, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. There was nothing left but
the truth. “Mr. Farrell” — she couldn’t think of him as Uncle Emory —“wants to kill my doll, and I don’t have anywhere to hide her.”
“Kill your doll! Why?” Mr. Oakes came down the back stairs and over to the buggy. He looked in surprise at the tarp. “You’ve hidden your doll in there?”
“She’s not exactly my doll.” Macy’s voice broke on the confession. “She’s from Japan. She has a kimono and everything.”
Her mind and heart flooded with the thought of Mr. Farrell shooting a bullet into the doll’s head. Her knees wouldn’t hold her, and she slipped to the grass with one hand on the buggy. “He’ll kill her. I know he will. I can’t let him do that.”
“May I see her?”
With unsteady hands, Macy unrolled the heavy canvas from Miss Tokyo. Part of her was relieved to see that the tarp hadn’t messed up the doll and her pretty kimono. The rest of her filled with dread.
Mr. Oakes whistled softly. “Was she your mother’s?”
“Not exactly.” Macy drew a deep breath she felt all the way to her toes. “Mama loved her, but she belongs to the museum where my papa is the curator.”
“A museum. I begin to understand.”
“The people in town said she was a symbol of the enemy. They were going to burn her in a bonfire.”
“Ahh. And you’ve spirited her away to save her.”
“Nobody knows I have her, but if Mr. Farrell finds out, he’ll shoot her. He said so. He said the big Friendship Dolls the Japanese children sent to America a long time ago should all be shot!”
Mr. Oakes nodded. “Mr. Farrell has a lot of patriotic spirit. A little more than necessary, maybe.”
Macy thought there was no maybe about it. “He shot some fishing floats because they came from Japan. And he broke one I found on the beach.”
“Well.” Mr. Oakes settled his cap a little more warmly over his ears. “Our concern is what we are to do with the doll.”
Macy looked into Miss Tokyo’s gentle eyes. “I won’t let him shoot her.”
“No, no, that can’t be allowed.” Mr. Oakes considered for a long moment. “I’ll tell you what, Miss Macy. I have a closet off the kitchen that’s scarcely used. It might not be pleasant for her, but your doll could wait there for the duration.”
Macy gasped for a breath that felt a long time coming. “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much!”
“You’re very welcome.” He reached into the buggy for the doll. “Does this beautiful young lady have a name?”
“Miss Tokyo. The dolls the children sent all have names that say where they came from.” Would that change his mind? Was the name too much a reminder of the people fighting American soldiers? Killing them? She’d heard Uncle Emory’s radio news, and it was horrible. War was horrible.
But Mr. Oakes didn’t seem troubled by the name. “We’d better get Miss Tokyo out of sight. You come on up to the door and watch where I put her so you’ll know where she’s waiting for you.”
Relief lightened Macy’s steps as she followed Mr. Oakes and the doll to the back door. Still, as she watched through the kitchen while her neighbor opened a narrow closet and placed the doll inside, she half-expected Mr. Farrell to show up with his gun.
Uncle Emory, she told herself. I have to call him that or he’ll want to know why I stopped. I might forget and mention Miss T.
All the next week after school and chores, Macy nestled into the wicker chair on Mr. Oakes’s porch and looked through the book he had given her. Softly, she spoke with the doll hiding nearby. “Here’s a picture of fishing cormorants, Miss Tokyo. Like the ones in Mama’s book. Do you remember?”
The high voice she gave the doll wavered in a reply. “Hai. Yes, Macy-chan, I remember.”
“I remember, too,” Macy whispered. “I will never forget.”
Hap would understand, even though the horrible war makers in Miss Tokyo’s country had killed him.
The Farrells weren’t able to roast a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner, but Aunt Ida lifted a beautifully browned roast chicken from the oven while Macy mashed potatoes. Uncle Emory hummed a church hymn as he tuned his big shortwave radio.
When they all sat down at the table, Uncle Emory said a blessing, including thanks that turkeys were going to our boys overseas. Aunt Ida suggested they each say what they were thankful for today. Smiling at Macy, she said, “I’m thankful to have Macy join our family. She brings fresh energy into our lives and reminds us to look with wonder at natural things like the ocean and sand and even seagulls.”
Macy wanted to say something nice back, but she wasn’t happy to be there. She missed Papa and Lily and even Christopher Adams. As she hesitated, Uncle Emory said, “Well, I’m thankful we’ve finally turned the corner on the war. Our boys won a great battle in North Africa. They’ve got a handle on it now. The first thing we know, the war will be over and they’ll be home again, telling us all about it.”
Macy wished she could say she was happy to have a letter from Nick, but she hadn’t received one since moving here. Aunt Ida said it probably took the post office time to figure out where she was.
“Macy, dear?” Aunt Ida prompted.
Macy looked from one to the other. “I’m happy that you are kind to me.”
“As if we could be anything else!” Aunt Ida’s eyes got shiny. Macy hoped that didn’t mean tears, even if they were happy ones. But Aunt Ida motioned to Uncle Emory. “Are you going to slice the turkey, dear? It’s not there for decoration, you know.”
“Turkey!”
“We’re pretending,” Macy explained.
Aunt Ida said quickly, “I expect the Pilgrims would have served a chicken if they couldn’t find a turkey in time.”
Macy giggled. “Maybe they did serve chicken, and the history books made it look bigger.”
“Pretending,” Uncle Emory said. “In my mind, that’s dangerously close to a lie. And lies hurt in the end.” He gave Aunt Ida a meaningful look.
What did that look mean? Macy rushed to Aunt Ida’s defense. “I’m thankful we can pretend our chicken is a turkey. It looks yummy, Aunt Ida, and smells even yummier!”
Aunt Ida smiled and patted Macy’s hand, but the laughter had gone from her eyes.
On Saturday, a strange car parked outside Mr. Oakes’s cabin. Macy balanced the hot flatiron on its plate beside the handkerchiefs she was ironing for Aunt Ida and watched through the window. A woman stepped from the driver’s side of the car. A boy climbed from the backseat, bending over and pulling a suitcase with him.
She said aloud, “Cee-Cee’s here.”
Aunt Ida lifted a tray of cookies from the oven. “He’s just in time to try my honey cookies.”
“The ones that save sugar for the army cooks,” Macy said, remembering.
“That’s right. Uncle Em’s favorites. Mr. Oakes’s great-nephew is sure to like them. Every little boy likes cookies.” She smiled at Macy. “Every big boy, too. Why don’t you take a batch over? It will give you a chance to get acquainted.”
The boy’s mother drove away before the cookies had cooled enough to be put onto a plate. “She’s not very nice,” Macy said. “She brought him here and left.”
That caused a shocked look from Aunt Ida, but Macy was remembering the way Papa had left so soon after bringing her here. That boy across the street must be feeling abandoned, the way she had then. Maybe the cookies would help.
She arranged them carefully and carried them across the street.
As soon as she knocked, the door to Mr. Oakes’s cabin swung open. The new boy looked out, his eyes going wide, but he caught the plate of cookies as it nearly fell from Macy’s hands. “You’re the nice girl across the street?” In his voice, she heard, How could my uncle make that mistake?
In almost the same moment, she exclaimed in horror, “You’re Cee-Cee?”
“Chris,” he corrected sharply. “Nobody but my uncle calls me by that baby name.”
“Your uncle, and maybe me.” She liked feeling a sense of power as sh
e looked Christopher Adams straight in the eyes. “Cee-Cee. That’s kind of cute.”
“I’ll say this once. When I was a kid, I couldn’t say Christopher. It sounded like Cee-Cee, and for a while that’s what they called me. Now I’m just Chris. Got that?”
She was tempted to grab back the plate of cookies, but she wasn’t forgetting how it felt to be left somewhere you didn’t want to be. “Truce. I’ll call you ‘Just Chris’ like everybody else. Enjoy the cookies, Just Chris.”
He scowled. “Don’t make me throw sand down your neck.”
“You’ll have to catch me first.”
“You think I can’t?”
“That’s right, Cee-Cee.” Turning, she raced for home. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw Chris grabbing sand from the bucket on his uncle’s front porch.
He was faster than she expected. She saw him cut across the Farrells’ big front yard to head her off. She veered toward the open garage and had just reached the steps to the back door when he caught up.
He grabbed her collar.
She shrieked.
The door flew open. “What in the world?” Aunt Ida exclaimed.
Chris’s hand fell away, but not before a few grains of sand had trickled down the back of Macy’s neck. She shook her collar to get rid of them. “Aunt Ida, this is Christopher Adams, Mr. Oakes’s great-nephew. He was in my class in Stanby.”
“Imagine that!” Aunt Ida said, smiling. “How nice that you’re already friends.”
Chris looked at Macy with an expression that said Aunt Ida was as mixed up as his great-uncle.
“We’re not friends,” Macy corrected. “We don’t even like each other.”
“You don’t?” Aunt Ida looked from one to the other. “Why not?”
“When you opened the door,” Macy exclaimed with a rush of indignation, “he was trying to put sand down my collar.”
Aunt Ida’s face relaxed. “Oh, well, you are friends, then. You just don’t know it yet. Come in, Christopher. Do you like hot cocoa?”
Macy shook her head violently.
Chris grinned. “Sure, cocoa would be great.” He winced as Macy pinched his arm. “But then I have to get back to Uncle Del.”
Dolls of War Page 15
