The Friendship Doll

by Kirby Larson

  This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2011 by Kirby Larson

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Larson, Kirby.

  The friendship doll / Kirby Larson. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Throughout the twentieth century, Miss Kanagawa, one of fifty-eight dolls made to serve as ambassadors from Japan to the United States, travels the country learning to love while changing the lives of those who need her.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-89951-5

  [1. Dolls—Fiction. 2. Ambassadors—Fiction. 3. Conduct of life—Fiction. 4. United States—History—20th century—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.L32394Fr 2011 [Fic]—dc22 2010020615

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  For Tyler,

  who has his own stories to tell

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Beginnings

  Early Autumn, 1927: Kanagawa Prefecture, Japan

  Arrival in America

  New York City—January 1928: Bunny Harnden

  Middles

  Downers Grove, Illinois—1933: Lois Brown

  Miracle, Kentucky—1937: Willie Mae Marcum

  From Oklahoma to Californ-i-a—August 1939–1941: Lucy Turner

  Endings

  Seattle, Washington—Present Time: Mason Medcalf

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Beginnings

  When the Japanese give a doll in friendship, it is bestowed with great meaning and honor.… Even adults speak about dolls as though they were almost human. A doll is not simply stored in a box. She sleeps waiting for a child to wake her.

  —JAMIE TOBIAS NEELY

  The Spokesman-Review (Spokane, Washington)

  MARCH 3, 1993

  EARLY AUTUMN, 1927

  Kanagawa Prefecture, Japan

  Master Doll-Maker Tatsuhiko

  The old doll-maker Tatsuhiko poured boiling water into the teapot with trembling hands and inhaled deeply. It was the last of his tea. He portioned out his breakfast rice and took a seat on a tatami mat. One of the blessings of growing old was that it did not take much to make his stomach content. And this morning his heart was so full that food seemed trivial.

  Tatsuhiko studied the doll he had completed the night before, smoothing an almost invisible tangle in her black hair. Miss Kanagawa. She would be the last doll he would ever make. Could ever make. His hands shook so these days, and his eyes were full of clouds. It was difficult to think his doll-making days were ended, but, like bitter tea, this fact was best swallowed down quickly.

  Though he wasn’t like Kurita—a man whose endless boasts clanged like the chappa cymbal—he was proud of his efforts. His wife would be, too, were she still living. Miss Kanagawa was a doll like none other. The size of a five-year-old girl, she was even more exquisite than the doll he’d made for the infant Empress. Two hands like graceful lilies rested at her sides. Her eyes, so clear and proud, gazed into his own. Her delicate cherry lips parted slightly, as if she were on the verge of speaking to him. He was almost disappointed not to hear her speak, but he knew she’d been created for the children in the Land of the Stars, and not for him.

  He had dressed her in their daughter’s best kimono, in its rich print of blue chrysanthemums against orange silk. This was the very one his wife had stitched for the child’s fifth birthday. Her last birthday. Tatsuhiko’s heart had shriveled like a dried plum the day the sickness took their sweet daughter away.

  “You look lovely, little sister.” The old doll-maker dabbed at his eyes. The steamy tea must be making them water. “I know you will serve your new role well, and will carry the message of friendship honorably. But my wish is that you will find a doll’s true purpose: to be awakened by the heart of a child.” He fussed with the obi until it was tied just so and then gently wrapped the doll in a blanket.

  Yoshitoku Doll Company was a mile across town, but the walk there was too short, even for his old legs. Too soon, Tatsuhiko was unwrapping Miss Kanagawa from the blanket, handing her over to the owner of the company. “Safe travels, little sister,” he said, patting her long black hair. His troublesome eyes began to water again.

  “Will you not enjoy some tea before you go?” The doll company owner was concerned for this frail man whose head bobbed like a koi at feeding time.

  But Tatsuhiko declined. “My wife waits for me,” he said. And without another glance at his creation, his masterpiece, he turned and shuffled away.

  Arrival in America

  DOLLS TO BEAR GOOD-WILL

  Japanese Children Are Sending

  Them to Show Friendship for Us

  TOKIO, NOV. 5, 1927 (AP) — Fifty-eight Japanese dolls, messengers of friendship from the children of Japan to the children of the United States, received their formal farewell yesterday from 1,500 Japanese schoolgirls in a ceremony preceding the sailing of the dolls for San Francisco aboard the steamship Tenyo Maru, which will leave Japan on Thursday.

  The children read addresses expressing hopes that the doll gifts to the American schoolchildren, presented in appreciation for more than 10,000 dolls, which American children gave for the doll festival of Japanese girls, will carry the assurances of Japanese friendship for the United States.

  The Japanese and American anthems were sung at the ceremony and Ambassador MacVeigh and Viscount Shibusawa made speeches.

  MISS KANAGAWA

  This leg of our journey, from Washington, D.C., to New York City, we are riding as befits our rank—finally!—sitting in seats, rather than closed up in our trunks, in the luggage compartment, hidden away from the exciting sights and sounds of this country called America. Elder Sister, Miss Japan, is on my right, unusually quiet. It has been some time since she has offered advice about proper behavior for a Doll Ambassador. Not that I need her lectures, but others of our fifty-six sisters certainly do. Miss Tokushima, for example. Weeping and wailing as we departed Japan. Shameful.

  It is no small sacrifice that I will not see my homeland again. But I will shed no tears, choosing instead to live up to the honorable task bestowed upon me: strengthening the bonds of friendship between two proud countries. Such a mission requires true samurai spirit. Sadly, some of my sisters are lacking in such spirit.

  I will let you judge my fitness by stating certain facts. When the Tenyo Maru sailed out of Tokyo, I was the first of my doll sisters to turn a brave face west, to accept my new life. I rode courageously through the city on the back of a motorcycle when we arrived in San Francisco. And I’m sure you can guess which of us greeted the American president’s wife, yesterday in Washington, D.C., with dry palm
s and calm confidence.

  Make no mistake! This job has not been all peach blossoms and tea cakes. I’ve endured my share of dolts who point and stare and think me from China. And, though offended to the core, I was outwardly serene when that one young girl asked if I could say “Mama” or wet. Perish the thought!

  None have heard me grumble—not once!—about all those grimy hands patting my kimono, that parting gift from Master Doll-Maker Tatsuhiko. He said he hoped that I would find my true purpose. Poor man—his longing to be with his daughter and wife had made a tangle of his thoughts. I know what my true purpose is. It is to be an ambassador beyond compare. And this kimono—lovelier than those of any of my sisters—is a fitting gown for one such as I.

  Yes, Master Tatsuhiko would be proud of me. Through a multitude of indignities, I have worn a steadfast smile, holding my lily hands out to all in goodwill.

  Miss Japan’s thoughts stir. It is when we have had our hearts awakened by a child that we can truly call ourselves ambassadors of friendship.

  My heart has been open to all, I protest.

  I hear the smug sigh of a know-too-much.

  We none of us have hearts. Yet. Miss Japan settles onto the seat, her eyes closing with a soft click.

  I know from the fuzzy silence that she is asleep. There will be no more lectures—for a time.

  All the same, her words nettle like a patch of thorns. Is it not enough that I have thus far played my role beyond reproach? Now, apparently, I must be like the plum tree that sacrifices precious leaves and fruit to a worm. Only my worm will be a child.

  I shudder and then push my thoughts in more pleasant directions.

  Miss Japan may think of herself as a doll, dependent on a child’s love for fulfillment. My other sisters may feel this way, too. That is their affair. But I am above all an ambassador, a dignitary. I simply happen to be a doll.

  A doll with as much use for a child as a dog has for a flea.

  NEW YORK CITY—JANUARY 1928

  Bunny Harnden

  Applesauce!

  Bunny stood on the top step at Mrs. Newcomb’s Academy for Young Girls, careful to avoid getting slush on her new white kid boots, peering around the statue of the school’s namesake to watch for Carson. Most of the other fifth-levels were in a knot on the far side of the landing. It’d been that way since Bunny started at Mrs. Newcomb’s in the fall, but today she didn’t give a fig about those other girls. Just wait until they saw her name and picture in the paper. That would show them.

  Father’s new Minerva Town Car glided up to the curb. Carson stepped out and came around to open the door. With a posture that would’ve made their beleaguered charm teacher proud, Bunny swept down the fifteen marble steps—head high, shoulders back—placing her feet daintily to keep her boots dry. She paused in profile before slipping into the backseat. As Carson closed the door, Bunny stole a quick peek out the window, catching Belle Roosevelt sticking her tongue out at her. Bunny didn’t even bother to stick her tongue out in return. Absolutely nothing was going to spoil her day. Nothing! Not even the assignment to parse out twenty-five sentences for English class by tomorrow.

  She skipped through the door at home when Nanny opened it.

  “And who did you sit with at lunch today?” Nanny asked. It was her way of finding out if Bunny had made any new friends yet.

  “I studied for my Latin exam at lunch,” Bunny answered. She wiggled out of her fox-trimmed wool wrapper and handed it to the old lady. “Is Mother home?”

  Nanny smoothed the fur on the wrapper’s collar. “Your mother and sister are engaged. Do you mind taking your tea in your room?”

  “Oh.” Bunny could see Mother and Winnifred with their heads together over something in the morning room, tea things scattered about. The two of them were always up to something together and were even busier lately, with that wretched coming-out party for Win. But not even taking tea alone was going to dampen Bunny’s spirits. “No, I don’t mind,” she answered in her bravest voice. Bunny’s boot heels click-clicked emphatically across the entry floor, but neither Mother nor Win even looked up. With a deep sigh, Bunny climbed the main staircase, one wide tread at a time.

  “Slip those boots off and put them by the fire to dry,” Nanny called after her. “Or you’ll catch your death.”

  Bunny had changed out of her school uniform and was starting her homework when Nanny brought in the tea things. According to Mother, Bunny wasn’t old enough for real tea. She generally got warm milk with honey and cinnamon.

  “I have an errand for your mother, otherwise I’d sit and keep you company.” Nanny picked up the doll Mother had ordered from France last year and placed it at the small table in Bunny’s room. “You can have tea with your dolly. Won’t that be lovely?”

  She scurried out of the room without waiting for an answer, off again on one of the countless missions Mother—or rather, Win—required these days.

  “Poor Nanny,” Bunny said, reaching for a sliver of pound cake. “I’m eleven years old and she thinks I still play with dolls.” She popped the cake into her mouth and brushed the crumbs from her hands. With a gulp that would’ve horrified Mother, Bunny downed the warm milk and then cleared the tea tray from the table. She wiped her hands on her skirt before lifting the Box from its hiding place under her bed. “Crayola Gold Medal School Crayons.” Even the label was thrilling! There were eight in all: black, brown, blue, green, orange, red, violet, and yellow. Thicker than a pencil, they fit perfectly in her hand. And the waxiness made them so much more satisfying than colored pencils. Leave it to Grandfather to send her such a perfect gift.

  She reached for the drawing, rolled into a neat scroll under the bed. It was safe here from prying eyes. She didn’t want anyone to see it until it was completely finished. She’d worked on it for weeks, starting the very night that Mr. Reyburn, president of Lord & Taylor, one of the oldest and best shops on Fifth Avenue, had telephoned to ask Father if Bunny might like to try out to give a speech. The occasion would be a welcome ceremony for some Friendship Ambassador Dolls sent from Japan. Bunny had said yes straightaway. Even though she always got high marks in elocution, she could scarcely sleep for two nights afterward for the excitement of it.

  She wasn’t worried about being selected to speak. No. What had her on cloud nine was the notion of finally, finally, being able to command attention at the dinner table, contributing to conversation that had been dominated as of late by guest lists and cucumber sandwiches. Winnifred would have to listen to Bunny, for once. Mother, too.

  Bunny smoothed out her drawing, the pleasure at what she’d created so far wrapping around her like a cozy cashmere shawl. There she was, center stage at the welcome ceremony, delivering her speech, a vision in a soft green dress. She had accomplished this effect by holding the Crayola lightly in her hand, gently stroking at the paper. She’d gotten the idea while watching Mother put on some face powder one morning.

  In the drawing, the dolls—she knew there were to be five in all—were arrayed behind her. She reached for the black Crayola to color in their hair. Their costumes couldn’t be colored in until after she saw them tomorrow. Next she would work on Father, but she had yet to decide whether to use violet or red on the flower in his lapel. There had been no room in the drawing for Winnifred. Too bad.

  All the while she colored, Bunny recited her speech aloud. It was perfect, if she did say so herself. A thought snuck up on her. What if the Times wanted to include it in the article about the ceremony? After dinner, she’d write out a copy in her best penmanship. Just in case.

  Happily absorbed in her art project, Bunny didn’t realize she’d been called to supper until Nanny appeared in the doorway, all in a dither.

  “Little miss, wash up quick and come.” Nanny clapped her hands. “You’re late.” Lateness was a thing not tolerated in the Harnden household.

  In a flash, Bunny rolled up her drawing and slid it and the box of Crayolas back into their hidey-hole.

  Bunny did a
quick washup, as instructed, lacing on her now-dry boots. She fairly floated down the stairs to the dining room, certain she couldn’t eat a bite. She was far too excited about tomorrow’s welcome ceremony. Maybe she could even wear Mother’s pearls. After all, Mother was letting Win borrow them for the tea.

  “Ah, there you are, Bunny.” Mother sat, hands folded in her lap.

  Bunny paused in the doorway. Long enough to etch in her mind this last evening of being a person of no consequence. Then she swept across the parquet floor to her place at the family table.

  She unfolded her napkin, placed it on her lap, and reached for her fork.

  “It’s lovely news, isn’t it, dear?” Mother said to Father.

  Bunny sat up straighter. Children were to be seen, not heard. That was Mother’s rule. But she could hardly contain herself. Mother’s news would be lovely indeed. Even though she detested them, Bunny forked up a bite of brussels sprouts.

  “Oh, yes.” Father fussed with his roast beef, clearly fighting the urge to pick up the newspaper at his elbow. He so loved to read the Times at the dinner table. “What news would that be?” he asked, now focusing on Mother.

  “Why, that call from Mr. Reyburn. About the welcome ceremony for those dolls tomorrow.”

  Bunny nearly leaped out of her skin. She was dying to hear the words from Mother’s mouth. The words that would make her family pay attention to her.

  Father searched around the table for the horseradish sauce. Finding it, he again looked at Mother. “I don’t recall speaking to Mr. Reyburn today,” he said.

  Mother laughed lightly. “You didn’t speak to him, darling. You were out. I left a message on your desk.”

  Bunny thought she would faint from the anticipation. She ate another bite of brussels sprouts without even noticing.

  “I overlooked it somehow.” His slice of roast beef well sauced with horseradish, Father ate a bite, then gestured with his empty fork for Mother to continue.