War and Millie McGonigle

by Karen Cushman

  “The dances are held at the ballroom at the amusement center,” the woman said. “We do have junior volunteers here who talk and play cards with the servicemen, but they’re all over eighteen.”

  “Umm, so are we,” said Rosie, standing tall. “And we have cookies.” She opened the bag and pulled out a shard of cookie.

  “I appreciate your willingness to help,” the woman said, looking at the cookie like it was a dead fish. I could tell she was trying not to laugh. It was totally humiliating. “Come back in four or five years. And take my advice: use the time to practice making cookies.” She closed the door, shutting us out.

  “Four or five years?” Rosie wailed. “The war will probably be over by then and we’ll miss all the fun. I hate being too young.”

  Fun? Was she kidding? I didn’t think there was much about the war that was fun. I dumped the cookie bits into a trash receptacle on the corner. They probably would have poisoned our brave fighting men anyway. I should have thrown the school bag in with it. It would never lose that burned-cookie smell. But I had to admit that life was a lot more interesting with Rosie around. Even the peculiar parts.

  When I got home, I was in the doghouse. If we had two doghouses, I’d be in both of them. Lily and Pete had helped themselves to the leftover flour and molasses we’d abandoned in the kitchen. The bathroom looked like there had been an explosion in a gingerbread factory.

  Mama had gone to work at the aircraft plant, but Pop bawled me out for leaving the mess in the kitchen and sent me to clean it up, and the bathroom, too. I had to go to bed without supper but I didn’t really mind. Dinner was Brussels sprouts and perch.

  My school was having a newspaper collection drive. Apparently we needed more paper to win the war. After school I thought I’d borrow Ralphie’s wagon, but on the way I ran into Ralphie’s brother Louie out collecting with it. Suddenly everyone was helping to win the war. “Dicky Fribble has a wagon you might borrow,” Louie said.

  I’d see us lose the war before I asked Icky for a favor, but if Rosie were around and she borrowed it, she and I could work together.

  There was no one home at the Fribbles’. Where was Rosie? The day felt a little empty without her. Wagonless, I retired from newspaper collecting and headed for home. On my way, I wrote a McGONIGLE in the mud. There was a small sand shark dead in the shallows, but I had forgotten to bring my book. I threw the little shark back into the water.

  I watched the sky all the way home, on the lookout for enemy planes. I saw several American planes—mostly Liberator heavy bombers and Coronado and Catalina patrol bombers—but, to my relief, not one Japanese Mitsubishi bomber. I didn’t write McGONIGLE in the sand. Too much trouble.

  At home, I flopped on my bed and picked up The Hobbit where I’d left off. The hero is Bilbo Baggins, a small and humanlike being with hairy feet, called a hobbit. He and lots of creatures—other hobbits, dwarves, elves, heroic eagles, and a wizard—join together to battle evil trolls and rescue a treasure from Smaug the dragon. Smaug is mean and violent and evil, and the creatures unite to fight him. Mrs. P was right—the story was kind of like today, but more fun.

  Mama came home then from shopping and I helped her put away groceries. “You can’t believe how much things cost these days,” she said. “Prices are going up and up. Why, I had to pay eight cents for a loaf of bread that was seven cents only last month, and twenty-four cents for a pound of coffee, not to mention six cents a pound for sugar, but there isn’t any to buy. Even with our jobs, we may be reduced to eating pickleweed and sand! Thank goodness your pop fishes.”

  I could see from the groceries what we’d be eating: whatever was relatively cheap—macaroni, oranges, cabbage, carrots, corn flakes, tomato soup, prunes, chicken necks and backs for soup. Hooray, there were peanut butter and Swiss cheese! But no meat, no cake, no Hershey bars.

  “I saw Bertha Fribble at the market,” Mama said. “She squeaked on and on in that air-raid-siren voice of hers, something about Rosie not helping her, eating too much, and going downtown looking for sailors. And using up all her lard and molasses. ‘Good thing my butter, sugar, and eggs are safely hidden away,’ Bertha said. Which means she’s hoarding.”

  “What about Icky? He’s more trouble than Rosie could ever be.”

  “I didn’t ask her. My ears were hurting me already. Anyway, the upshot is that Bertha kicked Rosie out, so Rosie and her mother went back to Chicago.”

  I swear my heart stopped. “Rosie’s gone? You mean it? That’s true?”

  “That’s what Bertha said. Lillian and Rosie caught a train on Sunday.”

  “Is she coming back? Did she leave me a note? Say anything? Anything?”

  Mama just shook her head, saying, “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

  I stormed out of the house and kicked everything I could kick. The side of the house. Driftwood, pickleweed, eelgrass clumps. Rosie gone! I thought we were friends. It was just how Gram left, without any warning, leaving me alone.

  I was sitting outside feeling bitter and forlorn when Pop came over. “Your mama has gone to work,” he said. “I brought home hot dogs and marshmallows, and I say we need a bonfire.”

  “Pop, it’s too cold.”

  “That’s why we need a bonfire.”

  “Please don’t say it will cheer me up. I’ll never be cheery again.”

  Pop built the fire with newspapers and driftwood. It flickered at first and then grew bright and leaping in the dusk. I lay facing west so I could see the oranges and pinks and violets in the sunset sky.

  “I’ve figured out a way to get rich,” Pete said with his mouth full. “Louie Rigoletto said there will soon be a shortage of gumballs because gum is made from sugar and some rubbery stuff from trees where the war is. Anyway, I now have six bubble-gum balls. I’m hoping to trade them for a chemistry set or a wagon.”

  “If you can find someone who’ll give you a wagon for only six gumballs,” I said.

  “Gumballs are worth a lot of money now. Three cents each. I traded a pair of my corduroys and a sweater to get these six—”

  “You traded your clothes for eighteen cents’ worth of gum? What’s wrong with you?” Pop rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “Go and get your clothes back. And no more trading.”

  “I don’t like long pants and sweaters anyway.”

  “Pete!”

  “Okay, okay. Phooey. I wanted to trade Lily’s doll but no one would take it.”

  Lily squealed. “Don’t you touch Pancake or I’ll—”

  More squabbles. “I’m taking a walk.”

  “Can I come?” Lily and Pete both asked.

  “No, you squirts stay here with me,” Pop said. “I think Millie needs some time on her own.”

  I walked away, over to the ocean side, where waves were crashing. I splashed through the water. My chest tightened and squeezed, and my head filled with tears. Was I mourning for Rosie? For Gram? Or for me?

  Walking home, I passed the Fribbles’. No Rosie there now. Could life be any worse?

  We were still finishing our breakfast CheeriOats when Mama hustled into the kitchen. “Hurry, hurry, my little ducklings! We’re off to save the zoo!”

  Lily and Pete shouted, “Yay! Hooray!” but I asked, “What? How? When?”

  “Because of the war,” Mama said, drinking Pop’s cold leftover coffee, “zoo attendance is down. I’m afraid if people don’t go, the city will close it or make it into another naval hospital, so hurry, ducks, we’re going to the zoo.” She yawned.

  I hadn’t seen Mama up so early since she started on the night shift. She must really care about saving the zoo. Or maybe she was just more relaxed and less worried now that she was working at a real job. As usual I felt funny about playing and having fun during wartime, but gee whiz, I was only twelve and couldn’t be gloomy all the time. I thought of what I’d said to Rocky. It was unfair, I guess. Let him surf sometimes
and I’ll go to the zoo.

  “Lily, you look nice,” Mama said, but she frowned at my shorts. “Millie, go put on a dress and some shoes.”

  Holy cow. A dress? Shoes? Were we going to the zoo or to meet the queen? “But, Mama—”

  “You too, Pete.”

  He snorted. “A dress?”

  “Shoes, Pete.”

  Mrs. Fribble was at the bus stop when we got there. “Lois,” she shrieked to Mama, “are you going to Japantown to hunt for bargains, too?”

  “I didn’t know you shopped there,” Mama said. “I hear their produce is the best and—”

  “Shop?” Another shriek. “From the Japanese? I would never! The devils would likely poison you.” She climbed aboard the bus, followed by Mama and us kids. There were no seats, so we all stood in the aisle, stumbling and swaying. “There’s talk that all Japanese people may be forced to move away from the West Coast, so they’re packing up and going before that happens.”

  She smiled, but she looked to me like the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz movie. I fully expected her to turn green and snarl, “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too!”

  “There’s all sorts of things they can’t carry with them,” Mrs. Fribble continued. “Pianos and refrigerators, toasters and radios and kitchen supplies. We real Americans deserve to have them after what the Japs did to Pearl Harbor. I myself am in search of a painted china tea set. And anything silver. Real silver.”

  I saw Mama’s brow furrow and her eyes narrow. “Don’t they have enough trouble without people circling them like sharks, ready to pick off their belongings?” she asked Mrs. Fribble. “They’re not criminals. The Japanese of San Diego weren’t anywhere near Pearl Harbor.”

  “Come on, Lois. You know they’re all in it. They’re spies and saboteurs, every one.” She leaned in closer. “Here in California we’re sitting ducks for enemy subs. I’ve seen them myself, huge, dark shapes cruising offshore.”

  Mama’s eyes grew narrower still as Mrs. Fribble went on. “The government tries to tell us they’re whales! Bah! Who can trust the dictator Roosevelt and his commie pals. Vernon and I are thinking of moving away from the coast to Arizona, but there are so many Mexicans there.”

  Mama’s face was grim and her eyes were mere slits, but I could see a glimmer of angry green. “Bertha Fribble,” Mama growled, “you infuriate me. You’re a bigot, small-minded and intolerant. You should be ashamed of such vile opinions!” I thought Mama would explode. Other people on the bus looked away or started mumbling to each other. Mrs. Fribble said nothing but pulled the cord for her stop. I waved to her as she departed. “Adios, Mrs. Fribble. Enjoy Arizona.”

  Pete and Lily each clutched one of my hands. Their faces looked stunned. Mama shouting?

  Mama looked at the three of us and sighed, clapping a hand to her chest. Her cheeks flushed pink. “My babies, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have lost my temper and scared you. But I couldn’t let her get away with spouting that garbage without speaking up.”

  Mama reminded me of someone. Who? Someone who marched for justice and stood up for people who needed it and…Of course. I smiled. “No, Mama, you were right. You’re a hero, just like Gram, even if you were a little loud.”

  “Hero?” Mama smiled. “As this war goes on, you may hear that sort of thinking more and more. I hope you handle it better than I did.”

  No, Mama, you did good. Could I be as brave?

  The bus turned toward Balboa Park and drove close to Consolidated Aircraft, where Mama worked. I pressed my nose to the window, excited to see, if only from the road, the place that built a B-24 Liberator bomber every three hours.

  Odd shadows flickered through the window. High above, the road was covered over with cloth. “What’s that for, Mama?” Lily asked.

  “That’s camouflage netting they’ve hung over downtown, the aircraft plant, and the airport. The nets are painted to look like trees and streets and houses from above to fool enemy aircraft.”

  “You mean enemy planes are coming here?” asked Pete.

  “With bombs?” Lily asked, and her lip trembled.

  “Don’t worry. If they do come,” said Mama, “we’ll fool them with our camouflage nets. There are even fake trees and false house roofs on top. And see those?” she continued, pointing to huge balloons that looked like blimps on steel cables. “They’re called barrage balloons and are meant to scare low-flying enemy aircraft and tangle them in the cables. There are more than a hundred of them up there, here and at the airport and the park.”

  I chewed a few fingernails. Enemy planes flying over San Diego? Would that mean war right here? Could balloons really save us? Shaking my head, I wondered about the common sense of the people in charge. Balloons?

  Most of Balboa Park was closed and turned into hospitals for sailors. A few museums and, best of all, the zoo were still open. Children were always free at the zoo, but Mama had to pay twenty-five cents.

  “I thought you might think the zoo a frill,” I said.

  “Not today,” said Mama as she took Lily’s hand. “Besides, now that Pop and I are both working, we can afford an occasional frill.”

  I’ll have to remember that she said that, I thought. It will come in handy.

  Once we were inside, the familiar smells and sounds of the zoo lifted my heart. So many memories of Gram and the animals. There were a number of men in navy uniforms, a few soldiers, and flocks of chickens, pecking at the ground, the grass, and my feet. They must miss Gram coming every day to feed them. I would.

  “Chickens!” Pete yelled. He put his fists in his armpits and flapped, crowing, “Yankee Doodle-doo!”

  “Well, Pete,” I said, “the volume was impressive, but it’s roosters who crow, not chickens, and it’s cock-a-doodle-doo. You should probably know that at five and a half.”

  “I’m not five and a half,” Pete said. “I’m almost six.”

  “Hey, I guess you are.” He was. The last half year had been full of changes and challenges—the war, Mama and Pop going to work, Rosie coming and going, Gram dying. 1942 was only one-twelfth over. What would the rest of the year bring? And in the summer I’d turn thirteen. I’d be a teen! Christopher Columbus, what would that be like?

  “What should we see first?” Mama asked as she gathered us around her.

  “Gorillas! Elephants! Giraffes!” we shouted, all at the same time, and we ran down the walkways, up onto the mesas, and into the canyons. We visited Mbongo and Ngagi, the gorillas, first. They were enormous, like giant hairy babies, rolling and wrestling and making strange gorilla noises.

  “They look a bit like Dwayne and Icky Fribble,” I said.

  Lily stared at them a minute. “No, the gorillas are cuter.”

  “I’ll bet they weigh a million pounds,” said Pete.

  “Each,” said Lily.

  “I think that one wants to shake my hand,” Pete said as he tried to squeeze his hand through the bars of the cage.

  “Pete, no petting the wild animals,” Mama said, pulling him away. “Or should I say, the other wild animals.”

  Pete growled and she patted his head. “Down, boy,” she said.

  We pointed at the camels, laughed at the seals, and wondered at the size of the elephants. At the wire bird-of-prey enclosure on Primate Mesa, Pete said he was a vulture and climbed up the side. Lily squeaked and squealed at the newborn ocelot kittens, and I pretended I didn’t know either one of them.

  Finally we were all tired and nearly as dusty as the animals. While Mama and Pete ran ahead to use the bathrooms, Lily took my hand and we said goodbye to the monkeys. “Look at those funny ones with red faces, Millie.” She pointed and laughed. “They look sunburned. Like I was.”

  Apparently she had forgiven me for the sunburn. I read the sign that identified the monkeys. “Those are Japanese macaques, also called snow monkeys.”

 
Lily squeezed my hand tighter. “Japanese? Are they bad, like Mrs. Fribble said the Japanese are, even in San Diego?”

  There was something in the trusting way Lily looked at me, as if I had all the answers, that touched my heart. I squeezed her hand. “Don’t listen to Mrs. Fribble. I know she’s a grown-up, but she’s wrong about so many things and she hates a lot of people. Listen to Mama.” And Gram, I said to myself.

  We walked back to the bus stop through Balboa Park. Barrage balloons floated above us. If they’d been red and yellow, it would have looked like a giant’s birthday party. Despite their ominous intent, I smiled at that. Jiminy Cricket, I was actually having fun.

  I finished The Hobbit after dinner. If Mrs. P lets me renew it, I’ll start reading it all over again, it’s that good. It was so thrilling and exciting with heroes and battles, horrible villains, a wonderful wizard, that awful dragon, and the pitiful, small and slimy and totally creepy Sméagol, who wants to kill and eat Bilbo. There were scary parts, sad parts, funny parts, and parts that made me cheer.

  I loved Bilbo, who was reluctant and fearful at first, but by facing dangers and his fears, he gets more confident and wise and sort of grows up. Could that be why Mrs. P suggested the book to me?

  I’d been confused as to time all week since President Roosevelt declared year-round Daylight Saving Time, to be called War Time, and had us turn our clocks ahead. I guess it gave people an extra hour of daylight in the evening, but it sure made it hard for people—well, me—to get out of bed in the morning. And how could a man, even a president, just change time? Could he also say, From now on February is May, so the weather will be warmer? I didn’t get it.

  Edna must have been out early, and she still wasn’t back when Mama left for work. Mama had a double shift today, so when she got home, she’d likely need a double sleep. We wouldn’t be seeing her for a while. Pop was at the Navy Exchange. Pete and Lily had been playing outside, but the door flew open with a bang.

  “Millie, look, Millie,” Pete cried. “I lost a tooth.” And sure enough, one of his bottom front teeth was missing. No, not missing. Just not in his mouth. In his hand. “Look, here it is. Isn’t it terrific?” He held it aloft. “I’m a big boy now!”