War and Millie McGonigle

by Karen Cushman

“Sort of. Well, no.”

  “Well, 7 and 5 are in the ones place and they add up to 12, which is 10 and 2, so the 2 goes in the ones place but the 1 goes in the tens place, so—”

  “Millie, I can’t understand that. Just tell me the right answer.” She dropped her head to the table.

  Lily’s flu had left her a bit weak and much less annoying. Or maybe the thought of being without her had left me more tolerant. I reached over and fluffed her hair. “Nope. We’ll work on it together until you get it.” And we did.

  The house was quiet again until Pete blew in with slamming doors and thudding feet. “Where’s the shovel?” he asked me.

  “Likely outside where you last left it.”

  Pete left for a few minutes but soon returned with more door slamming. “I have a message for you from Dicky Fribble.” Pete stuck his thumbs in his ears and waggled his fingers. “Is there any message I should take back?”

  “Yes. Drop dead. Tell him to drop dead.”

  Pete nodded and took a pancake turner and serving spoons from a drawer. I grabbed his sleeve as he passed. “Where are you taking those?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “Better bring them back just like you found them.”

  I’d just finished my homework when Pop came home and started supper. His specialties were Chef Boy-Ar-Dee canned spaghetti and Kraft boxed macaroni and cheese. One dyed our lips red and the other bright orange.

  “Where’s Pete?” Pop asked, waving a spoon like a bandleader.

  “He’s having dinner at Ralphie’s.”

  Actually at the moment Pete was outside calling me. He was pulling Ralphie’s wagon with something under a towel. It wasn’t Pepperoni the turtle, who had died and was now just a page in my book. This was something lumpish and stinky. I wrinkled my nose. “What you got there, bud? Buried treasure?”

  “Exactly. Come see. It’s for you.”

  I went closer. The smell got worse. Not fishy but bad. Real bad. What was it?

  “Ta-da!” whooped Pete, and he whipped the towel off the lump in the wagon.

  I pinched my nose closed and went closer still. It was an animal. Maybe a cat. No, a dog. Or mostly skeleton with clumps of dog still attached.

  “Yikes, Pete! How grotesque.”

  “Icky Fribble and I dug it up on the beach. He said it’s a present for you. I thought you’d like it for your Book of Dead Things. I call it Pluto, like Mickey Mouse’s dog.” Pete’s face was eager and hopeful. “Do you like it? I’m pretty sure it’s dead.”

  Pop came out. “What on earth is that smell?”

  “It’s a dog,” said Pete. “It’s Millie’s.”

  “Millie’s? Well, Millie, take it and bury it somewhere far away.”

  “But it’s—”

  “Just do it. Why in blazes would you bring it here? You should know better.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Go! And don’t touch it. Pete, you come inside and wash your hands. I’ll start the macaroni and cheese.”

  I tucked my book and a pencil in my pocket so I could draw the dog before I disposed of it. It certainly was a dead thing. Off I went, pulling the wagon that reeked of dead dog. Christopher Columbus! Luckily there were not too many people around to see me. Or smell me.

  It was so unfair. Icky Fribble dumped a dead dog on me, Pete lugged it home, and I’m punished for it. Pete gets two dinners, and one was beef stew. And the mac and cheese would likely be gone before I got even one bright orange mouthful.

  I dragged the wagon and its cargo on Bayside Walk toward the south end of the beach. If I buried the dog back in its hole, some other little kid might find it. Besides, I was tired and hungry and had no shovel for digging. Pete must have left it somewhere. I looked out at the water. Yes, of course! This dog deserved to be buried at sea. That’s what they do for dead heroes in seafaring movies. And all dogs are heroes.

  I didn’t want to drop it into the bay. Low tide could very well expose it again. It had to be the ocean. The west side of the bridge, which connected the south end of Mission Beach to the town of Ocean Beach, faced the open ocean. There were never very many people there this time of day, so I could launch the skeleton over the side into the water without attracting too much attention.

  The wheels on the wagon squeaked and clattered on the walk as I pulled it toward the bridge. Poor Pluto. How did he die? Was he sick? Did he suffer? Would his bones sink slowly into the water or be swept out to sea? To Hawaii, maybe, where the water would be warm and gentle? I hoped so.

  I maneuvered the wagon as close as I could get it to the edge of the bridge and unwrapped the skeleton. The sky was clouding and the wind rising, and the smell was getting worse. I decided not to stay and draw the dog in my book but just list his name: Pluto Dog, died San Diego, 1942. Holding my breath, I wrapped the skeleton in the towel and, ugh, picked it up. It wasn’t too heavy, being mostly bones. As I lifted it, the skull poked out, and the lower jawbone, teeth bared, fell to the ground. It was foul, grim, revolting…but definitely intriguing. That I’d keep to draw carefully in my book.

  I dropped the dog into the sea but kept hold of the towel. I’d have liked to throw the reeking, rattling wagon in, too, but Ralphie would want it back, even stinking of dog, of death.

  The dog’s bones bobbed on the surface for a minute and then slowly sank from sight. “Farewell, Pluto,” I murmured. “I’m sure you were a good dog and someone cared enough to bury you when you died, but you’re a putrid old thing now. Goodbye and sleep well.” It was silly to be mourning for a dog, especially a dog skeleton, but I was all at once bursting with misery. My eyes and my nose ran, and I bit my lip to stop them as I wiped my face with my hand.

  Once home, I sat in front of our cottage and drew the jawbone in my book. Thanks, Pluto, for leaving me your jaw, I thought. Pluto was gone but he had left something of himself behind. Like people do. Not jawbones but memories and silver hairbrushes. I felt a quick twinge of, maybe, gratitude.

  The jawbone was brownish white, with several yellow teeth, one broken. Had the dog been in a fight or hit by a car? I was growing mournful again. What should I do with the bone? I could throw it in the water, too, or bury it…but I thought of something better. Yes! I would share the stinky dog fangs with someone who deserved them.

  I tore a page out of my book and wrote To Icky from Pluto. Did you miss me? Don’t have nightmares now! and tucked the note in with the bone and wrapped them in the towel. The jawbone and I hurried to the Fribbles’ and rang the doorbell. I ran away but Pluto’s jaw stayed right there on Icky’s doorstep.

  Pete pulled at my blanket. “Millie, I’m not sleepy. And I’m hungry.”

  “Go away. It’s the middle of the night.” It wasn’t really, but the sun hadn’t risen yet. “Do you want to climb in here?”

  “No. I’m awake, and I’m hungry.” He pulled again, harder.

  “Okay, okay. Be quiet and don’t wake anybody else. I’ll come sit with you, and if it’s not foggy, we can watch the stars go out.”

  I made us a cheese sandwich to share and pulled a chair up to the living room window. Pete curled in my lap. I could smell his sweet and sweaty little-boy smell.

  “What stars am I seeing?” he asked.

  I’m no astronomer but I have a pretty good imagination. “See there—that bunch of stars followed by a long tail? That’s the constellation Squirrel. And those stars sprinkled around are Sky Oysters and Clams and Heavenly Corn Flakes.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  “I’m pretty old. I’ve been around.”

  Pete giggled and I squeezed him.

  “Where do stars go when they go out?” he asked.

  “Oh, they’re still there. They just pull their blankets up to their chins and go to sleep.”

  “Look, Millie. There are new stars coming out on the bridge over there.”

  “
Those are the lights of cars crossing the causeway to downtown. It must be almost morning. The blackout is over. We’ll see the sun rise soon.”

  “One, two, three…four!” Pete sat happily counting cars until we heard Pop.

  “Anybody for CheeriOats?” Pop asked.

  “Me! Me!” said Pete, jumping down from my lap, which felt suddenly cold and sort of lonely.

  “But you already ate,” I told him.

  “I’m hungry again. Counting stars is hard work.” He took the box of cereal and poured until his bowl was overflowing. “Look,” he said. “Baby doughnuts!”

  After breakfast, Dwayne Fribble came by with Pluto’s towel-wrapped jawbone. He said Mrs. Fribble was hysterical with fear and disgust. Why did they assume it was me who left it? Pop said I had to take the bone and give it a proper burial. But first, I had to write a letter of apology to the Fribbles.

  My first try—Sorry, but it’s actually Icky’s fault because he dug up the dog and didn’t dispose of it properly but sent it to me, the crumb—Pop called snarkish and insincere. “Try again,” he said.

  Second try—I’m sorry I scared and disgusted Mrs. Fribble. I apologize to her, Dicky, and the dog—was deemed a poor effort, but since I wrote Dicky instead of Icky this time, Pop said it would likely do.

  On the way to the Fribbles’ house, I buried the jawbone in an out-of-the-way patch of sand and saluted. Farewell again, Pluto. I took the letter and slipped it under the Fribbles’ door. I couldn’t face any Fribbles this early in the morning.

  When I got back, I took Lily and Pete outside so Mama could sleep. I automatically took my Book of Dead Things with me.

  “Why do you take that book everywhere?” Lily asked. “Is it important?”

  Did I? Was it? “No, of course not. That would be dumb. And weird. It’s just a notebook.”

  “Then why do you always take it?”

  “I don’t. See, I’m leaving it right here on the table.”

  But before I’d gotten out the door, I turned back for the book. I just didn’t feel right leaving it behind.

  “Let’s build a sand castle,” said Lily, tiptoeing through the mud on the beach.

  “There’s no sand here,” Pete said. “We can build a mud fort, in case we’re invaded by Japanese submarines!”

  Lily squealed and pointed. “Eek, I think I see one!”

  “Don’t be silly, Lily. There are no submarines in the bay. It’s way too shallow.”

  But we built a fort anyway, with driftwood gun turrets and a paper-bag flag. And then we had an eelgrass fight. And skipped stones. And let Mama sleep.

  Hundreds of moon jellies lay stranded on the beach, as they were every winter and spring after a high tide. I lifted one up. “Look, guys, you can see your hand right through them.”

  “Can I pick one up?” Pete asked.

  “Sure, but don’t step on them. You’d be like Charlie Chaplin and a banana peel. And be sure and wash your hands after so you don’t irritate your eyes.”

  I pulled my book from a pocket and, studying the jellies closely, started to draw. Each was the size of a large pancake and so translucent I could see a stomach or something right through them. From what I could tell, they didn’t have a brain, heart, blood, head, eyes, or ears. Life couldn’t be much fun for moon jellies.

  Lily saw me with the notebook and gave me a questioning look. Who cared what she thought? I kept drawing dead moon jellies in my unimportant book.

  Edna was in the bathroom when we returned. “Why aren’t you at air-raid-warden training?” I asked her.

  “Phooey. Too much work. They wanted me to learn rules and maps and streets. My memory’s not that good. So I quit.” She lifted her foot onto the toilet seat and began to draw a line up the back of her leg with her eyebrow pencil.

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  She changed legs. “Because of the war, there’s no silk or nylon for stockings. It seems the army needs it for parachutes. I make fake seams up my legs so it looks like I’m wearing stockings.” She examined each leg. “Fortunately I have a little tan, so I don’t need leg makeup like some other gals do.”

  Yes, Edna had some tan, but also lots of blue veins, a bruise or two, and crooked seams, but on the whole it was not too bad.

  She wrapped a scarf like a turban around her hair and added more lipstick to her red mouth. “Albert is taking me downtown to lunch at the U.S. Grant Hotel. It’s very expensive.” Edna pressed her lips together to set the lipstick. “He really likes me.”

  “I thought Albert was history.”

  “We’ll see,” said Edna with a small smile.

  Mama was up and about when Albert arrived. In he came, as spindly and bigheaded as I remembered.

  Lily and Pete hadn’t met him before. Lily squeaked and hid behind Mama’s skirts. Pete inhaled sharply, and I feared what was coming next. “How does your giant head balance on that skinny neck?” Pete asked.

  Mama cried, “Pete!” but Albert only smiled.

  “With invisible wires and a little magic.” Albert winked at Mama and then pulled a quarter from behind Pete’s ear.

  Pete took the quarter. “Wow! I’d have to eat five worms to get this.”

  There were giggles all around.

  “Speaking of worms,” Albert said to me, “know how you can tell which end of a worm is which? Tickle it in the middle and see which end laughs!”

  I groaned.

  “Not my best, I agree.” He grinned. “I do love me a good joke.”

  I raised one eyebrow. “I hope you find one.”

  He laughed and wiggled his ears.

  When Edna was ready, Albert bowed to Mama, and they were off.

  “I do hope she’ll be all right,” Mama said. “Albert may look funny, but he’s kind and seems to care for Edna. I think he’ll be good to her.”

  “Unless his head falls off,” Pete said.

  “Your pop may be late tonight, Millie, so you’re in charge of dinner,” Mama said. She put two cans of pork and beans on the counter. “Sorry. This is all we’ve got.”

  “Beans, beans, the musical fruit,” Pete sang, stomping around the kitchen. “The more you eat, the more you toot.”

  “Peter Gordon McGonigle!” Mama shouted as she grabbed him by his shirt.

  “He’s all yours for a while, Mama,” I said. “I’m going for a walk.” I’d let Mama handle Pete and Lily and the house and everything until it was time for her to leave. I now knew she counted on me, but I was tired of being in charge while she worked. It was better when taking care of her family was Mama’s job, not mine.

  Pete had a tiny magnifying glass that he won in a box of Cracker Jacks once. I grabbed it and my book and set off.

  I didn’t see anything dead on the mudflats, so I took myself over to the ocean side. I squatted down but there were no dead things to look at there either, only sand. It didn’t matter. The toy magnifying glass wasn’t worth a hoot.

  Icky Fribble and his fellow barbarians ran by, yelling and throwing sand and stones at some little kids on their bikes.

  “Stop it, you juvenile delinquents,” I shouted. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Icky stopped. “They’re Japanese!” he said, throwing another stone at the fleeing children. “Enemies and probably spies.”

  “You dope. They’re Chinese. My pop knows their father. He brings the kids along sometimes when he’s delivering fish.” What would Gram say? “And even if they were Japanese, they’re little kids and Americans and not enemies.”

  “I think they’re Japanese spies pretending to be Chinese.” He looked at the magnifying glass in my hand. “Hmmm. A magnifying glass, Mil-bert? Very suspicious. Maybe you’re a spy, too. Like your wacky cousin Edna. We ought to be stoning her, too. And you.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I am serious,” Icky said. “I have to be on guard, be
ing the man of the house now that Dwayne has joined the army.”

  “Which side?” I asked.

  “Har-har, McGargle.” Icky poised to launch a stone at me, so I took off.

  I was walking, watching the waves tumble against the sand, when—

  “Yeow! Damn! Son of a gun!”

  Yelling? And swearing? There was someone down there by the water. The someone must have seen me, for he shouted out, “Hey, McGonigle! I need some help here!”

  I went a little closer. It was Rocky, waving at me from the shallows. Dreamboat Rocky! And he was talking to me! He even knew my name! My heart fluttered like a hummingbird. I couldn’t go any closer to him. I would trip. I would faint. I would die. Or worse.

  Rocky waved again and shouted, “What in blazes are you doing? Come help me!”

  I trudged through the sand to where Rocky lay on his side in the shallow water. Blood rushed from a gash on his leg, tinting the salt water pink.

  “Stingray,” he said. His leg was red and swollen, the gash deep and bleeding profusely.

  My heart beat faster and my cheeks grew hot. It was like a dream—Rocky, lying there at my feet. I knelt and scooped water onto the cut with my hands to clean the sand off while Rocky thrashed and moaned. “Holy Toledo, that hurts!” he muttered.

  “You need to see a doctor.” My voice sounded squeaky and juvenile. Christopher Columbus! What was I, ten?

  “No kidding, but first I need to get out of here, and I can’t do it by myself.” Rocky sucked in his breath. “Hurts like hell—uhh, heck. Sorry.”

  I tried to pull him to his feet, all the time thinking, This is Rocky. I have his hands in mine. These are his muscles. This is Rocky and I am holding him. Several times he got partway up and dropped back to the ground as I slipped and tripped.

  Finally he was standing. Blood streamed from his wound as we stumbled back up to where the beach was dry. Rocky fell to the ground.

  I took off my sweater and wrapped it around his leg to stanch the bleeding and tied the two arms to keep it tight. “What happened?”

  “I was bodysurfing and landed on a stingray. Looks like he got me good.”