War and Millie McGonigle

by Karen Cushman

  “Mama,” I asked as I set the table for dinner, “do you think Mrs. Dunsmore will die?”

  “No, she’s healing nicely.”

  “Well, do we know anyone who died recently or is about to?”

  “How morbid. Why do you ask?”

  “I want to know more names of dead people.”

  “Millie, you are the most peculiar child.”

  Me, peculiar? Mama should have a talk with Pete sometime.

  My mother wants you to come to dinner,” I told Rosie.

  “I’d love to.”

  “You won’t say that after. It’s likely to be a circus.”

  “Listen, it means I’ll miss dinner at the Fribbles’, which is like a bad horror movie. Dinner at the Fribbles’,” Rosie boomed, “with King Kong as Dwayne Fribble, Frankenstein as Dicky Fribble, and starring the Wicked Witch of the West as Mrs. Bertha Fribble. There will be action-packed terror and violence and gross stupidity and more….I’d prefer a circus any day.”

  So it was on. Rosie arrived at five o’clock exactly, carrying a sprig of white-blossomed sage in a 7-Up bottle. The piney, sharp scent of the sage filled the room.

  “How sweet, Rosie,” Mama said, and she took a big sniff before shutting it in the refrigerator. Lily, of course, was allergic.

  Edna, Pop, and Lily were already sitting at the table, and Rosie joined them. “I want to sit next to Rosie,” Pete said, and he grabbed an empty chair and shoved it between Edna and Rosie. It was not a promising start.

  As we owned only six chairs, I had to sit on a pile of sofa pillows and rest my chin on the table.

  Pete screeched, “Eeeek! It’s the Evil Body-less Head come to destroy the earth. Prepare for your doom! Mwah-ha-ha!”

  “Pete, behave,” said Mama.

  “You do look awful funny that way, Millie,” said Lily. “Big head and no body.” She pointed at me and grinned. “Hey, I know where the Headless Horseman can find a head.”

  “Knock it off, Lily, or you can sit down here.”

  “Consider it your throne, Millie, my princess,” said Pop. “Your perch.” He slapped his knee. “Perch, Millie! Perch! Get it?”

  “I waaant a throne, too,” Lily whined. “But not perch.”

  Pete pounded the table in frantic laughter. “Millie’s sitting on a big fish! Does it stink like fish guts?”

  “Don’t be crude, Pete,” Mama called from the kitchen. “And, Martin, you either.”

  Pop winked. “I’m in trouble now.”

  Rosie and I looked at each other. Her face was red and sort of scrunched up. Was she disgusted by us? Ready to run off? Would I lose a friend?

  “Enough of this babbling,” Pop said. “Rosie, how do you like living here at the beach?”

  “It’s nice. I like it mostly.” Her lips were thin and her voice tight, so unlike Rosie. Was she shy?

  Before Rosie could say anything more, Mama brought in platters and bowls of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and canned peas, and we helped ourselves.

  Pete held up a chicken wing and asked, “Is this squirrel? Sure looks like squirrel.”

  “Squirrel? Not squirrel!” And Lily started to blubber.

  With his mouth full, Pete said, “Best squirrel I ever ate.”

  “Enough, Pete. It’s not squirrel,” Mama said.

  “I’d like more squirrel,” said Pop with a grin.

  Lily squealed.

  “Martin, quit fooling around. Honestly, you’re as bad as Pete,” Mama said, her mouth pinched. “You, Lily, stop crying. You know they’re teasing. Pete, find something else to talk about besides squirrel. And everyone stop acting like ninnies. We have a guest.”

  “Willa Silver can play the ukulele with her feet. And Waldo Swelter’s feet stink so bad you can smell him coming.”

  Rosie squirmed and clamped her lips shut.

  Mama closed her eyes. “Thank you, Pete. Enough about feet. Anyone else?”

  “Speaking of squirrel,” Edna said, and Mama groaned. “On the farm we ate squirrel and possum. What’s the big deal? When you’re hungry, you eat what’s there.”

  Mama sighed. “Edna, dear, you’ve never lived on a farm.”

  “I’m sure I did. I remember getting up at five to milk the cows, haul logs, drag in ice from the pond for the icebox—”

  “Wait a minute,” I shouted. “I know that story. That’s Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Farmer Boy.”

  Edna frowned. “No.”

  “Remember, it’s all about her husband, Almanzo, when he was a boy. You must have read it sometime.”

  “Almanzo, yes. He was there, too. Good-looking boy.”

  “Can we have possum instead of squirrel next time?” Pete asked, then added, “What’s possum?”

  “No possum!” cried Lily. “And no squirrel!” She pushed her plate away, and it smashed onto the floor.

  That did it. The circus was in town. I looked at Rosie. I dreaded what I’d see there but she exploded into laughter, spraying a mouthful of canned peas across the table right onto Pop.

  I excused myself and crawled into the bedroom to hide under the covers. Rosie must feel mortified. Between her eruption and the McGonigles’ bad behavior, she’d never speak to me again.

  “Where are you, Millie?” Rosie asked from the doorway. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. I couldn’t help it. Everything was just so funny and I couldn’t hold it in any longer.”

  I poked my head out. “Funny? Funny? You don’t think we’re weird and gross and crazy?”

  “We’re all a little crazy. And it was a whole lot better than Dinner at the Fribbles’.” She sat on the bed. “I like your family. No one’s mean.” She sighed. “Your pop reminds me a little of my dad. I miss him. This was a bit like being home with my family.”

  A loud crash came from the dining room. Rosie and I rushed in to see Pete and his chair sprawled on the ground. “I’m okay. Things look funny from down here. Come see.”

  “Get up here and finish your squirrel,” Pop said.

  “Martin!” From Mama.

  Rosie smiled. “Maybe your family is a little louder and weirder.”

  “Absotively!” I took a deep breath of relief. Dinner at the McGonigles’ was over and Rosie and I were still friends.

  A series of explosions woke me before dawn. With my heart tumbling wildly, I tore into Mama and Pop’s room and jumped onto the bed, between them. “Is it war? Are the Germans here? What should we do?”

  “Shh, Millie. It’s okay.” Pop smoothed my hair. “It’s only big guns test-firing from the beach palisades in Point Loma. They’re making sure everyone and everything is ready, just in case.”

  Lily slept through the noise but Pete, rubbing his eyes, joined us. “Is it Fourth of July? Can we have firecrackers, too?”

  Pop picked Pete up and carried him, upside down and giggling, into the kitchen. Mama made pancakes for breakfast, but it was a gloomy affair. The pancakes were plain and round—no pancake hearts or smiles or cat faces with raisins for eyes. Pop used to get a newspaper and he’d read the comics aloud in funny voices while we ate our fancy pancakes. Now Mama thought the newspaper was a frill and we should save the five cents. And the radio was always on.

  “Increasing Pacific tensions,” a newsman shouted. “A special Japanese envoy has arrived for what appears to be one more—possibly the last—joint effort to discover a formula for peace in the Pacific.”

  My face and hands grew cold. “Japan? Do I have to worry about Japan, too?”

  Mama turned the radio off. “Lily and Pete, go into the bedroom and play something. Edna, sit down. We grown-ups need to talk.”

  Lily stuck out her lower lip. “Millie’s not a grown-up.”

  “For this conversation, she’s close enough.”

  Pop settled Lily and Pete in the bedroom with paper and crayons and closed the door.

  �
��You’ve heard the news,” Mama said. “President Roosevelt says the U.S. may be at war in a year.”

  Edna harrumphed. “The United States should stay out of foreign wars. Hitler won’t come here, and we shouldn’t go there. It’s all just talk.”

  Pop slammed his hand on the table. “Stop it, Edna! Every day we hear more about Nazi atrocities. Countries invaded and their residents slaughtered, Jews massacred, Jewish children—children!—murdered.” He took a deep breath. “And it’s not just Germany to fear. Despite Japanese envoys and peace offers, they may just be stalling while they get ready to attack. War is coming here. If not today, someday soon.” He stuck his unlit pipe in his mouth.

  My face grew cold. Pop was scaring me more than the explosions.

  “Hitler may be as bad as they tell us,” Edna said. “I don’t know, but I know he won’t come here. Why would he? What have we done to him?” And with that she went to take a bath.

  His teeth clenched around the stem of his pipe, Pop asked, “How does she know? Did he send her a telegram?”

  “Martin, be serious,” said Mama.

  Pop grunted. “Millie, I won’t tell you kids not to worry,” he said, “but if war comes, San Diego is ready. The navy has installed powerful new guns and mortars and mined the harbor. Fort Rosecrans has been reinforced and thousands of artillery men trained. And you know I would never let anything bad happen to you guys.”

  I nodded, but I wished I could believe that. What could Pop do against Hitler and Nazis or invading Japanese?

  There was a sharp knock on the door and Mrs. Fribble came screeching in. “I just saw Tilda Morris at church. She has it on good authority that the guns this morning mean the Germans have invaded! And she saw people at the butcher in Pacific Beach yesterday ordering bratwurst and whispering in German.” Mrs. Fribble took a deep breath. “It’s an invasion!”

  “Easy, Bertha. The guns were fired for a readiness test,” said Pop.

  “That’s what they tell us. How can we believe them, Roosevelt and his lousy Democrats! I tell you, Tilda Morris is right. It’s an invasion!” Mrs. Fribble grabbed a cold pancake from the table and chewed. “The Germans have already planted spies everywhere. Gloria Mergaser said she heard from Aldus Topper at the filling station that they’ve trained dogs to bark in German to pass messages.”

  Mama swallowed a laugh and Pop drew strongly on his unlit pipe. “Now, Bertha—”

  “Don’t Now, Bertha me, Martin McGonigle. There are German spies right here in Mission Beach. I’ve seen reflections off binoculars and strange flashing lights. And now we’ve been invaded!”

  Edna, greasy green beauty cream smeared on her face, scurried in from the bathroom. “Mein Gott, invaded?” she shouted. “For real? Ach, mein Gott! Verdammt!”

  Mrs. Fribble stared at Edna, squeaked loudly, and tore out of the house.

  Mama finally let her laugh loose. “I imagine she’s off to spread sweetness and light at another lucky home.”

  “It’s not funny, Mama,” I said. “If Edna keeps talking German and defending Hitler, there’ll be trouble.”

  “Millie’s right,” said Pop. “You’d better watch out, Edna. I’ll bet Bertha Fribble turns you in to the FBI: I tell you, Officer, there’s a German spy with a green face! Right there in the McGonigles’ house!”

  “Phoof!” said Edna, and she went back into the bathroom.

  I pulled a jacket from the closet. “I’m going for a walk.” I needed to be by myself to think about the war news Mama and Pop had shared. I walked over to the ocean side of Mission Beach. The sky was clear and wide, the wind pulled at my clothes, and the noise and fury of the crashing waves echoed the disquiet within me.

  The sand was strewn with kelp, brown and shiny and reeking of the sea. I dragged a strand behind me, popping the gas-filled bubbles that kept it afloat in the ocean. The pops sounded like bullets, I imagined, though I’d never heard a bullet and hoped I never would.

  A brown pelican soared overhead. Suddenly he folded his wings and, his beak like a spear, plunged into the water. With a great splash, he then shot up into the air with a fish in his bill. Gulls followed, squawking, in case he dropped the fish, but he tossed it up as he flew and caught it so that it slithered down his gullet. Would America be like that poor fish attacked from the air and swallowed whole? I snorted. A little dramatic, McGonigle, I thought. Mrs. Gillicuddy would say Overwrought and Excessive and make me rewrite.

  I stood looking west. There was nothing but water between me and Japan. What were they doing over there right now? Were they mounting big guns and mortars and reinforcing their forts like we Americans were? Was a Japanese girl, worried and afraid, standing on the shore staring across the same water toward me at that very moment?

  I didn’t think I was like Mrs. Fribble, jumping at every noise and seeing spies in every bush, but I was plenty worried. That didn’t make me a coward, did it? Other people were worried, too. Normal people, not like Mrs. Fribble. It seemed the cloud over my head had grown until now it covered most everyone in the country.

  I’d been keeping the Book of Dead Things like Gram wanted me to. And signing it with McGonigle in the mud. We were all safe so far. Was that because of the book? Gram would likely know, but Gram was gone, and anyway, whatever she knew didn’t keep her safe.

  I walked down to the far end of the beach, my footsteps in the sand following behind me. After the mild Sunday, the sand was strewn here and there with what visitors had left behind—ruins of sand castles, bottle caps, cigarette butts. A jellyfish had washed ashore and lay stranded on the sand. But the tide would come in, leaving the beach clean and new when it ebbed again. I wished the whole world were like that. Bad things might happen, but just a turn of the moon and all would be well again.

  I have a quarter,” Rosie said. “Let’s go get Cokes and fries.”

  “Race you to the Shack.”

  “No, not the Burger Shack again. Let’s do something different. Have an adventure.”

  “Like?”

  “Like going to the soda fountain at Dunaway’s. We’ll walk and talk our heads off.”

  “That’s in Pacific Beach. It’ll take a long time.”

  “What else do you have to do?”

  I shrugged and we set off.

  “What’s up with you?” Rosie asked. “Anything interesting going on at the McGonigles’? Any more squirrel dinners?”

  I ignored that. “Pop is glued to the radio. Lots of scary news about Japan. And I’m just all filled up with worry—”

  “Hold it right there. We’re off to have an adventure. A fun adventure. Tell me gossip. Tell me stories. Tell me rumors. Just don’t tell me the news.”

  So I told her about Skinny Pickens getting kicked out of school for letting frogs loose in the first-grade classroom. And Ned Baxter setting off firecrackers in the teachers’ lounge. Miss Warren, the kindergarten teacher, swooned and had to be carried to safety by Mr. Wilder, the assistant principal, and now they’re engaged.

  And Rosie told me about Mary Margaret Oglesby going steady with Frank Burnside and Leon Martins at the same time.

  “How can she do that?”

  “The bigger question is who on earth would want to go steady with Frank Burnside or Leon Martins?”

  “Mary Margaret Olgesby,” we said at the same time.

  “I don’t have any more gossip but I know a joke,” I said. “A strawberry tried to cross the road and there was a traffic jam.”

  Rosie chuckled. “That’s okay, but listen to this. It’s my favorite joke.” She cleared her throat and said: “A Roman soldier walks into a bar and holds up two fingers. ‘Give me five Cokes,’ he said.” She grinned a big grin.

  “So? What’s the joke?”

  Rosie held up her hand and made a V shape with two fingers. “See? Vee? Like the Roman numeral five. Get with it, Mil.”

  “I guess it’s funny, but c
onfusing if you don’t know about Roman numerals. And I don’t.” I was a little annoyed. Was Rosie showing off? “Why, I could tell you a joke about sculpin and you wouldn’t know what I was talking about.”

  “What’s sculpin?”

  “See!”

  More bickering and gossip and bad jokes later, we finally reached the drugstore. We grabbed two stools at the counter, sat and twirled and swung our feet. We blew the wrappers off the straws and ogled the soda jerk.

  “Yowza,” Rosie said, and whistled softly. “With those muscles he must lift a lot more than just ice cream cones.”

  “It’s Buzz Pittman,” I told her. “Bitsy Pittman’s older brother. Bitsy says he lifts weights in front of a mirror so he can admire his muscles.”

  Someone dropped a nickel into the jukebox and the Sons of the Pioneers sang “Cool Water.” Why the song was popular, I don’t know. All about thirsty cowboys in the desert yearning for water.

  Buzz brought our Cokes. “It’s that dumb song again. I hate it! I hate stupid cowpokes and their stupid yodel singing.” He raised his voice. “Who keeps playing that dumb song?” he asked, but no one answered.

  We slurped our Cokes noisily and wiped our lips.

  Buzz started to whip up a chocolate milkshake for some lucky person. “He’s definitely cute,” Rosie said, watching him.

  “Phooey. Buzz is mean and a bully, and he’s cute enough to get away with it.” I blew a straw wrapper in his direction. “Like Dwayne and Icky, except for the cute part. Do they ever give you trouble?”

  “I’d like to see them try. I couldn’t win in a fistfight, but I can outrun and outthink them any day. Besides, they’re pretty much cowards and like to pick on littler kids.” Rosie put two nickels on the counter for our Cokes.

  “Let’s go,” she said, and jumped off her stool. “But first…”

  She crossed to the jukebox and put her last three nickels in. “This is dedicated to Buzz Pittman. Enjoy,” she announced as she pressed C-7 three times: “Cool Water” by the Sons of the Pioneers. And we left.