by Mindy Klasky
“Yes, I was the one to bring them into this world,” the lady replied, sounding much like a proud parent.
Oooookay. It was time to get this one moving. “I have a couple you might want to think about.” Mergit quickly unlocked the glass case full of dolls. “I have several TV investigator dolls here, including that old one who was a clean freak, or the brothers who solve supernatural crimes? They might be able to handle a doll pretending to be a ghost. And then—”
”I don’t think there’s any pretending going on,” the woman broke in. “I think a spirit has moved in—maybe more than one.”
Two beats of silence. “But you don’t want a priest doll. How about a…preacher doll? We could get one in a nice suit, and we have miniature Bibles…”
“I’m just not sure a regular minister is going to be able to handle the situation,” the woman said primly.
Her expression looked both evasive and as if she had the high moral ground. There were no other words for the look on her sculpted face. Except “Bags O’ Money,” of course. Part of the reason she had no expression on her face was an expensive facelift. Mergit looked hard, but couldn’t see any incision lines.
No regular ministers… Drat! Why hadn’t she gone ahead with the Marie Laveau doll? A voodoo priestess should be exotic enough for this woman. But there was no way Mergit could make that doll in one night: The plans for it were too elaborate, and she was not going to trash her future reputation on a poorly made figure.
“Well, if you want out-of-the-ordinary power, I could get you a Marie Laveau figure, but it would take a few days. She’s the voodoo priestess of New Orleans.”
“I must admit I’ve been wondering about the housemaid. She is from Louisiana, and you never know who might be into that sort of thing,” the woman confided. “Some protection spell might have gone wrong. Marie Laveau isn’t the current priestess of New Orleans, is she? I thought she was dead.”
“She’s been gone a while, but when you’re the big name in voodoo, dying is just a change of address.”
“Perhaps we could save her for a backup? I’d really like to try something tonight.”
Mergit searched the shelves for anything that might count when trying to exorcize a dollhouse. Noticing the Disney section, she had an idea. “How about this doll?” Mergit lifted the heroine of the “Hunchback of Notre Dame” animated movie. “A gypsy might be able to communicate with the gh—spirit world.”
The woman considered the doll. “Too young,” she announced. “Although I like the idea.”
Setting down the animation figure, Mergit walked two steps and lifted a beautiful, limited edition fortuneteller. Her costume was a riot of color and texture. The seated Romani woman wore enough jewelry to jingle, and came with a crystal ball on a parlor table and a deck of tarot cards. Most importantly, she looked attractive but mature. “I’ll bet this lady has the maturity to face The Other Side.”
The customer nodded her streaked curls. “I agree; she can at least communicate with them. I’ll take her.”
Score! It was an expensive figure, and if the store did well there were bonuses to be had. Since the woman didn’t need gift-wrapping, Mergit boxed the doll, wished the lady the best and left her to pay for the card reader. Part of Mergit wanted to tell this tale in the break room, and part of her felt really odd about things. Her mind accepted the split decision, and she held her tongue.
Mergit told her roommate Beth about it that night, though, while Beth studied law and Mergit carefully finished the stitching on a yeti figure’s pelt. “And that’s where it stands right now.”
“Do you think she’s doing it for attention?” Beth asked from her perch on the futon.
“Maybe,” Mergit replied. “It didn’t feel like a con, though. She could be certifiable, enjoying a good fantasy, or dealing with a haunted dollhouse.”
“Yeah, right.” Beth moved her brown hair out of her face, a sure sign of skepticism.
“Maybe her family is pulling her leg,” Mergit offered, standing the yeti up next to his associate, the sasquatch.
“She’ll be back,” Beth warned. “If her kids are pulling a prank, it’s too good a joke to let go of yet.”
“What do you think?” Mergit asked, gesturing to the two figurines.
“I like the sasquatch better,” Beth decided. “He looks friendlier.”
“That’s a thought. Maybe I’ll make a family for each of them.”
Beth sighed. “Are you ever going to sell any of these things? They’re beautiful, they take time and money to make, and they’re filling up your workroom.”
“I’m going to take them in next week to show a buyer from a specialty house,” Mergit said. “After I make Marie Laveau.”
“Sell them online,” Beth advised and headed for the kitchen. “Higher profit margin.”
The next day at work, Mergit kept an eagle eye out for the nicely dressed Mrs. Bags O’ Money. Sure enough, the woman arrived about an hour after opening, carrying the store bag.
Great, Mergit thought. I hope she didn’t damage the doll.
The lady set the sack down on the counter, and carefully slid out the large box. “It wasn’t successful, but we made contact.” Opening the lid, she gently lifted out the fortuneteller.
The doll was still sitting on a stool, her crystal ball in the center of the table. But she was no longer laying out tarot cards. Tarot cards were scattered over the table and wooden platform, and the doll had her hands on either side of the crystal ball. The lovely face now looked stunned.
Her black hair was now snow white.
Mergit blinked. The face was the same; only the expression had changed. If this woman is thinking far enough ahead to have made a duplicate head to switch out, she really wants a witness to something. “The lady looks shocked.”
“She does, doesn’t she?” the customer agreed. “I think there are at least two ghosts. She got one of them to communicate, but the second kept trying to scare her, poor thing. She’s tough. If I give her B stress drops for a few months, I’ll bet her hair will grow back in dark.”
“Ah, right,” Mergit replied, still staring at the doll. How did she do that? No. It couldn’t really be haunted… “Maybe you need brute force. How about good old GI Joe?”
The next morning, the lady was back. “They trashed the dollhouse rec room, and the ghosts are still there,” she announced. “Joe said something about needing reinforcements.”
Mergit decided a few questions were in order. The woman, whose credit card had revealed her to be Mrs. Ellen North, looked troubled. Mergit wondered why her family was playing such an elaborate trick on her. “Mrs. North, have you ever seen the ghosts? Or seen them in action?”
“I have never seen them, but I’ve felt them, plus they leave tiny beer cans everywhere, especially the dolls’ rec room.” She pulled the evidence out of her purse, packed in a spice bag.
Mergit peered at it. I didn’t know they made Lone Star miniature cans.
Mrs. North turned and looked around to make sure no one was near, and then whispered: “One of them pinches me! The other cries a lot.”
“And you don’t think…there isn’t anyone who would like to play a prank on you, is there?”
“Pinching me in broad daylight? My dear, you’re imagining things. Since my husband’s death, I have lived alone, and my children all live out of town. No, this is a ghost problem. The strange part is haunting the dollhouse.”
Right. In for a penny… “What did the fortuneteller find out about them?”
“It’s a young couple, she thinks. The boy likes playing all these tricks and making trouble, without anyone to stop him, and the girl seems to be clinging to Earth because she’s afraid Heaven will be strange and boring.”
Mergit smiled. “Then I have an idea.” First she went over to the limited edition dolls, and pulled out a great Elvis doll. This was the ’50’s Elvis, in jeans and T-shirt, leather jacket, and blue suede shoes. The sneer was perfect. Mergit wasn’t a
huge Elvis fan, but she had a low number ’50s Elvis herself.
“You need two things. First, you need someone to assure them that there are good things about Heaven, too. Of the dolls we have on hand, I think Elvis—young Elvis—would be perfect. He’s handsome and fun enough to reassure her, and cool enough to get the boy to listen. And just in case the boy ghost still wants to make trouble…” Mergit dove under the counter, digging in the older stock. Ah, ha! Still there! She should have known the store wouldn’t send it back, not after the guy was elected governor of California.
“This guy will be backup for GI Joe.” Mergit placed a picture box on the counter. Inside it, armed to the teeth, was the big guy himself, Arnold Schwarzenegger, ready to take on another Predator movie.
The woman looked pleased. “The Elvis doll is an inspiration, my dear. But I don’t know about Arnold. He is impressive, but the rec room is not huge…”
Mergit reached for the miniatures chest, opened a tiny drawer and took out a handmade, leather-bound complete New Testament, worth more than both dolls. “If you arm him with this, all the bases are covered.”
“Genius!” A big smile (but no smile lines) was Mergit’s reward. “Let’s try it.”
Mrs. North didn’t return the next day, much to Mergit’s relief, but Mergit couldn’t help but wonder what happened to her, and whether her dolls were still being haunted. Still, there were the holiday shoppers to deal with, and the specialty buyer admiring her fantastic creatures. The woman had mentioned a limited edition. Yes! The little beer cans had given Mergit an idea. A Bubba doll—it was a natural.
Maybe Mrs. North was gone for good. After all, there couldn’t be ghosts in the dollhouse. Even if ghosts existed, they wouldn’t haunt a dollhouse.
It wasn’t until Christmas Eve that Mergit saw the haunted dollhouse lady again. Mergit still hadn’t told the story to the rest of the staff, other than to say she’d sold the Bible miniature to someone who needed to exorcise a dollhouse. Mrs. North seemed like a perfectly nice lady, and making fun of her made Mergit think about who might, at that very moment, be making fun of her own mother.
Mom knit fairies out of fine wool yarn.
As the saying went, different strokes for different folks.
“Mergit! There you are!” Mrs. North had a broad smile on her face. “Thank you so much for all your help! Apparently the combination was a good one, because I haven’t seen or felt any sign of the ghosts in over a week.”
“I’m glad for you, Mrs. North. You want to have a nice Christmas without any restless spirits troubling you.”
“Well, yes,” the woman agreed. “Although Christmas is the time for ghosts. Dickens, you know. And my son’s family arrives this afternoon. So I thought I’d ask you about one more little problem before they arrive.”
Mergit braced herself. “What’s happened?”
Mrs. North set down her bag, and drew out of it something wrapped in tissue paper. Unfolding it, Mergit found the remains of a deer statue. “Remains” was the correct word. The carved wood figure had what looked like teeth marks in it, and one haunch was missing.
“Since there is so much left, it can’t be a wolf pack, and wouldn’t a werewolf eat more than this? I’ve heard dog packs will kill just for fun, but none of my dog statues show any signs of blood.”
Mergit thought she had resisted temptation long enough. She didn’t make much more than minimum wage, and she knew how to keep a customer happy. “Mrs. North, is this deer from a winter scene you have set up somewhere?”
“Yes, I have several deer and pine cones on the mantel in my rec room.”
“Do you use artificial snow?”
“No, that’s so messy. I use cotton batting around the legs.”
Mergit reached under the counter where her sack of dolls still waited. “I think you have a yeti problem, Mrs. North, and the best thing to do is take back another yeti to explain that it’s his territory.” She whipped out the doll and placed him on the counter. Standing next to heaped snow, the hulking creature had a face between a human and a gorilla, its expression both stern and wise.
“A yet tee? Oh!” She stared at the doll. “A bigfoot?”
Mergit pulled out the second doll, his pelt shaggy brown, his expression gentle. “No, I’ve got those, too, but I think with the snow it’s yeti trouble.” She leaned over and whispered something to the woman.
“Oh, thank you, my dear! This is an excellent solution!”
Mergit carefully packed up the yeti, took the woman’s cash, handed her a private business card, and sent her on her way.
“A yeti exorcist?” It was Dan-the-Man-ager, a big smile on his face. “I won’t mention you just sold your own work if you don’t do it again.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mergit replied. “No, the Bible and the dolls I sold her before apparently took care of the exorcism of the dollhouse. Now she has something preying on her reindeer.”
Dan just stared.
“I pointed out that a yeti was big enough to scare off wolves and lesser yetis,” Mergit continued. “And he’s handsome enough to charm a lady yeti.”
“Big sale?” he asked, looking pleased for her. Dan was a great guy, and probably hoping her dolls would be a success, so he could arrange a deal with the owners of Hobby Galaxy.
“Let’s just say that if she comes back here and asks for baby yeti dolls, I think I’ve found a muse.”
Making Love
Brenda Clough
The policewoman behind the reception desk lifted the flaps of the cardboard box and squealed. “Ooooh, aren’t they cute!”
Milly said, “The blankies are at the bottom.”
The policewoman pulled out a pullover vest the size of her palm. It was blue with a small red intarsia heart knit over the tummy. “Kitty wants to try one on right away!” She took a toy beanbag cat from its perch on the security monitor.
“A black kitty would look better in this,” Milly suggested. She dug a tiny pink sweater out of the box.
“Too right!” The policewoman crammed the toy head through the tiny turtleneck and pulled the limp front paws into the pink thumb-sized sleeves. Milly had ribbed the neck and sleeve cuffs out of leftover white mohair, so that the toy cat now took on an ineffably Zsa Zsa Gabor air. The policewoman held the clothed toy to her cheek. “It’s soooo cute!”
A passing cop peered into the box. “You got any bear sweaters?”
Milly gave him an Aran cabled cardigan five inches across. The policewoman laughed at him. “Now Jim, what’re you gonna do with a bear on drug busts?”
“You’d be surprised,” the cop said. “Last bear we had, we gave it to a methhead. Traded it for his automatic—he was all set to blow his brains out. It was like a magic trick.”
“My goodness.” Milly peered mildly over her bifocals at him to see if he was joking.
“Well, he wasn’t what you’d call rational at the time,” the cop conceded. “We’ll put your donation to good use, ma’am.” He held the security door open for her.
“I’m sure of it, officer.” Milly crossed the parking lot and got into her old Chrysler, musing on the many uses of a sweater-clad toy. She had thought she was knitting clothes for toys to soothe frightened children after auto accidents or some such. But a meth user? Amazing.
There was just enough time to swing by the yarn store. The owner greeted her with respect. The bag of donated yarns was ready for her behind the counter. “Sorry about the colors,” Aylin said.
Milly peeked inside and winced at the acid greens and unsaleable shotgun marriages of colors that should never be knitted together. “Snugglies, for the animal shelter,” she said.
“Good idea—dogs are color-blind. All they’ll feel is the love you put into it. Oh, and while you’re here, have a look at this new yarn.”
“Mmmm.” Milly sank both hands up to the wrist into a hank of buttery soft merino worsted. “And the color—so peaceful and soothing!”
“Like rain clouds over the ocean,�
� Aylin agreed. “And machine washable!” Obviously it was impossible not to buy just one skein to try out. Milly jammed it into the top of her bag, and hurried back to work.
The information desk at the mall was never busy. Except for the occasional shopper looking for Sears or in need of directions to the restroom, Milly had plenty of time to knit. That afternoon she made a child-sized pair of mittens in red with white snowflakes, two square pet snugglies out of the ugly green yarn, and added another four inches to the back of a raglan pullover in red wool sprinkled with colored flecks. She only hoped that Ryan her grandson wouldn’t have outgrown the pullover before he got it for Christmas. She knitted back and forth, thinking about Ryan’s bad grades and how much Louisa worried about his progress through second grade. Perhaps Louisa could use a nice fluffy hat for Christmas? Milly couldn’t remember when she last knit her daughter-in-law a hat. Maybe it was time.
Her shift was over at four. Traffic back through Oakton was terrible. The light at the corner was so long she had plenty of time to ponder the mysterious text up on the Methodist church’s signboard. Today it was “All Hail the Power of Jesus’s Name.” How odd, she mused. Names were only words, without power. Power was woven out of fragility, linked, cunningly purled and stranded and cabled into a steel-strong fabric. Words had nothing to do with it.
When she got home she found that Frank had put the casserole into the oven. “We’re out of soda,” he greeted her from his Barcalounger in the living room. “And how come we never have any Parker House rolls?”
“I’ll put it on the grocery list, dear,” Milly said. With his diabetic disabilities, her poor husband had of course made no other dinner preparations. She hung her coat up and bent to plug his wheelchair battery into the wall outlet—it would take all night to charge. “How was your day?”
“The leg’s worse,” Frank said gloomily. “These copper bracelets are no more use than a headache, let me tell you. Damn if I’m not going to be bedridden by the new year.”
