The Doll's Eye

by Marina Cohen

  “Weird,” she muttered, pulling herself free from the steel trap. She could swear the tricycle had been clear on the other side of the room. She was certain she’d felt a hand. She reached to rub her ankle. That’s when she saw it.

  Her flailing hand must have snagged one of the old sheets, because there on the floor, uncovered and glaring at her with its Cyclops eye, was a house. A dollhouse. An exact replica of the house she was living in.

  Voices rushed up the stairwell. Hadley didn’t want anyone to know she was spying. She got to her feet and rushed toward the steps, leaving the dollhouse exactly where she’d found it. Only when she glanced over her shoulder and took one last look, she couldn’t escape the feeling it had found her.

  Four

  The fire in the woodstove has long since died. The room is dark and cold. I shiver, and then pull the wool cover over my head.

  Papa has left early for the glasshouse. It is a good distance away along our property’s edge. He works from well before dawn until long after dusk in the large barn. There they crush sandstone in large troughs and then smelt it in the opening in the enormous furnace to produce fine glass. I’ve seen the blazing furnace on a few occasions. It is a monstrous thing, reminiscent of a fiery dragon throat.

  Papa employs twenty-one men and twelve boys. He calls them dog-boys, as they are trained to respond to the unique whistle of the men they assist. I tell him the name is disrespectful and unkind, and he tells me that is why he will not permit me to come to the glasshouse and upset things with my rebellious, visionary ideas. That, plus it is too dangerous. Papa says accidents can occur quickly.

  Of course nothing could ever happen to Papa. He is an expert glassmaker. He apprenticed at the prestigious Boston & Sandwich Glass Company, where he then worked for many years before leaving Massachusetts to begin his own business in Pennsylvania.

  Papa says he produces the finest flint glass in all of Pittsburgh—perhaps in the entire Union. He is proud to tell Mama and me that in the five years since he left us to found Palmer Glass Works, it has come to rival even the most exceptional of European imports.

  I have only been in the city of Pittsburgh twice since my arrival in Pennsylvania, but I wholeheartedly agree with Mama—it is not nearly as lovely as Boston. Clouds of soot billow from smokestacks. The dark, dense air hovers like a gray blanket over the city, blocking out the sunshine during the day and the stars at night.

  I lie in my bed thinking of Boston and my stately, beloved row house. All the while this new house creaks and groans, and the wind wuthers in the chimney flue like a strange symphony performed just for me.

  Then, all at once, the symphony ends. The front door creaks open, and dull footsteps clip-clop across the hall. Frau Heinzelmann, the German woman Papa has employed to care for us, has arrived. She is a stout and sturdy woman, with a round face and rosy cheeks. A thick braid of nut-brown hair coils around her head like a snake.

  I spring from bed, gather the wool blanket around my shoulders, and fly down the dark oak steps. Papa reminds me all the time not to charge like a buffalo down the steps or one day I will take a nasty tumble, but I do not heed his warning.

  Papa has instructed Frau Heinzelmann to work silently so as not to disturb Mama, but as I approach the kitchen I can already hear her bustling about, clattering pans, singing cheerfully.

  Der Jäger in dem grünen Wald,

  muß suchen seinen Aufenthalt.

  er ging im Wald wohl hin und her

  ob auch nichts anzutreffen wär …

  It is an old folk song she has taught me about a hunter in a green forest who meets a young girl with glowing eyes.

  We must keep the house quiet for Mama. She has not adapted well to the change. She misses her sisters, Cordelia and Angeline. She longs for the streets of Boston, her favorite hat boutique, and of course the restaurants and cafés. Papa says Mama has a touch of melancholy caused by acute nostalgia. Frau Heinzelmann insists it is her spleen.

  “Too much black bile brings on gloominess,” says Frau Heinzelmann.

  She has suggested a good leeching, but Papa is all for modern science—not what he calls medieval myths and peasant practices. Doctor Fenton has prescribed Mama a nerve powder and plenty of bed rest.

  Today, Frau Heinzelmann has brought Mama a large clay pot brimming with wood violets. I stick my nose into the floppy blooms and inhale deeply. They smell sweet and mossy and wet-leaf green. It is like a whisper of summer entering our late fall lives.

  I follow Frau Heinzelmann up the stairs into Mama’s room. I hop onto her soft mattress. Mama turns and runs a hand down the long braids Frau Heinzelmann has given me. She smiles vaguely and says, “Hello, little bird.”

  Before I can respond, her eyes glaze, her hand falls limp at her side, and she is gone again. Today is a good day. Some days Mama does not speak at all.

  “Sweet violets cure the soul,” says Frau Heinzelmann, placing the plant on Mama’s nightstand. She checks the porcelain chamber pot, but it is bone dry. “Mind, you can only smell them once. After that, the nose is deadened to the scent.” She points to the rather bulbous feature in the center of her round face.

  “I can still smell them,” I tell her, sniffing the sugary aroma that has taken over Mama’s room.

  “Hush, child.” Frau Heinzelmann ushers me out. “Go somewhere and play.”

  I heave a sigh. I would very much like to do just that, only I have no one to play with. Our neighbors are a great distance away, and Papa will not permit me to go off on my own. He does not want me to get lost in the woods. They lead to the Monongahela River.

  Papa says Monongahela is an Algonquian word that means falling banks. Apparently the shoreline is unstable and quite treacherous. He worries for my safety. He believes if I get too close, I might slip in, and I cannot swim. He says the current would carry me to the Ohio River and then perhaps all the way to the Mississippi. He would never see me again.

  Frau Heinzelmann claims it is not the current I should worry about but rather the strange man-fish known by locals as Monongy. She warns that the elusive aquatic beast will drag me under the waves should I so much as dip in a toe.

  Of course, I do not wish to become Monongy’s victim, so rather than venture outside or spend my days in solitude, I return to the kitchen with Frau Heinzelmann. While she cooks and cleans and irons the linens, she tells me old folktales of cunning toads and deep wells and lovely princesses. She sings songs about brave hunters and young maidens with bright, clear eyes.

  Five

  Hadley carefully maneuvered a pea with her fork from one end of her dinner plate to the other. Isaac wasn’t allergic to legumes other than peanuts, so they ate peas almost every day. She was certain she was turning green.

  “Why isn’t O the first letter of the alphabet?” asked Isaac. He was famous for asking random questions designed to make Hadley ask “What?” She couldn’t resist.

  “What?”

  “O is like zero. So it should be first, doncha think?” He shoved a spoonful of peas into his mouth, chomped a few times and then grinned. His teeth were covered in green mush.

  Hadley rolled her eyes and sighed.

  “I’m taking some time off next week,” said Ed. “I’ll paint the halls and the living room then.”

  “We picked Desert Dusk. Just like the old apartment, Haddy.” Her mother beamed.

  Hadley smiled and nodded. She was trying hard to be cheerful. When she’d left the attic that afternoon she’d discovered a plate of cookies—chocolate chip cookies with the chocolate still shiny—waiting at her door. It was a peace offering from her mother. Just like old times. Hadley had lifted the plate, but her pinkie finger seized and the cookies slid off, dropping to the floor in a heap of gooey crumbs. When she apologized for ruining the gift, her mother pretended she had no idea what Hadley was talking about.

  “I almost forgot,” said Ed. “My boss gave me three tickets to the Pirates game next week.”

  “Wow!” shouted Isaac. A
pea torpedoed from his mouth, landing on the table in front of Hadley.

  “Three?” said her mother, glancing at him nervously. “For you and the kids, of course.”

  People often spoke of the fifth wheel as being unnecessary, but Hadley was beginning to feel like the fourth wheel—on a tricycle.

  “Of course,” said Ed. “You like the Pirates, Haddy, don’t you? Isaac and I are huge fans.”

  “Pirates? Sure.” Hadley smiled weakly. “I like football.”

  Isaac burst out laughing. “The Bucs are baseball, silly.”

  “Bucs?”

  “Bucs. As in buccaneers,” said Isaac. “As in pirates.”

  “Looks like you have a lot to learn about sports,” said Ed, tousling Hadley’s hair.

  “Sports. Great.” Hadley smoothed her hair and took a deep breath. Her mind drifted toward the dollhouse.

  Of course she hadn’t played with dolls in years, but this was different. The dollhouse fascinated her. Everything was identical to her new house. The tiled roof, the octagonal windows high in the attic—it even sat on a wooden base complete with a driveway, artificial grass, and a garage set back with a room above it. It was as though someone had taken her house and shrunk it.

  Hadley had once visited a strange museum in Niagara Falls. It was full of all sorts of weird miniature exhibits. There was a pair of shoes that had belonged to the tiniest woman that had ever lived, plus a bunch of shrunken heads—supposedly real heads—that had had their skulls removed and then been sewn back up and stewed in herbs by the Shuar people of the Amazonian lowlands. There was even an entire woman shrunk to the size of a doll—though Hadley had read later that it had been a fake, most likely created using goatskin.

  Questions mushroomed in the darkest regions of her brain. Whose dollhouse was it? Who built it? And why had its owner left it behind?

  The idea of dolls suddenly reminded Hadley of the eye. Her hand swam into her pocket but came out empty. It must have slipped out when she’d fallen in the attic. She resolved to search for it later.

  “Pass the biscuits,” said Isaac.

  Hadley handed him the basket of warm buckwheat blobs. Her pinkie finger was still stiff. Another casualty of the fall.

  Ed crammed a slab of meat into his mouth and talked while he chewed. “We’ll stay in motels and eat at greasy diners. I’ve saved up vacation and my boss says I can use it all next summer.”

  The words next and summer snapped Hadley’s attention back to the dinner conversation. She struggled to catch up. “What are you guys talking about?”

  Her mother looked at Hadley as if she had three heads. “I’m sure I told you. We’re going to take a family vacation next summer. A road trip south.”

  Hadley’s chest tightened. Her fork fell, sending a glob of mashed potatoes splatting onto the table. “You promised I could go to Camp Greenly Lake with Sydney next summer. Remember?”

  “I said maybe.” Her mother swiped at the mess with her napkin, only making it worse. “But things have changed.”

  Hadley felt the last grain of her old life slip through her grasp. The thought of going to camp with Sydney next summer was what had made leaving her best friend bearable.

  After the dishes were cleared, Mom, Ed, and Isaac decided to play a board game. Hadley leaned against the door frame.

  “Come on, Haddy,” said Ed. “We can be teams. You and me?”

  He patted the seat beside him. The skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled. He was trying so hard to be nice. Hadley really wanted to take him up on his offer, but when she opened her mouth what came out was, “Some other time.”

  Isaac rolled the die and drew a card. He had to act out a word while Hadley’s mother and Ed had to guess. He danced around while they shouted random things like “Potato!” and “Sherpa!”

  Beyond their voices, Hadley heard something else—a low wispy wail, like the sound of a child crying. It was coming from the enormous fireplace in the living room.

  The oak mantel stretched floor to ceiling. It was covered in elaborate carvings. With the empty timber basket sitting there, it reminded Hadley of a great grinning mouth. Wind whispered down the long shaft, echoing out the brick firebox.

  The timer buzzed.

  “Goggles,” said Hadley softly. “Isaac’s word was ‘goggles.’”

  “Of course,” said Ed, putting his arm around Hadley’s mother and winking. “It was so obvious.”

  Her mother seemed to really enjoy the game. She and Hadley only ever played things like chess and checkers and gin. Most games didn’t work well when there were only two players.

  It was funny how Mom and Ed had met. Hadley’s mother was a parking enforcement officer. Ed was a painter. One day, he had to make a quick stop at one of his work sites and couldn’t find parking. She’d given him a ticket for parking illegally. He thought she was so beautiful that he double-parked in the exact same spot every day for the next three weeks, hoping to see her again. He got about a dozen tickets before she returned to that block. He said he would have gotten a million tickets if that was what it took to find Hadley’s mother again.

  They’d barely started dating when they’d decided to get married. They hadn’t introduced Isaac to Hadley until they were already planning the wedding. It all happened so fast; a license, a bunch of daisies, dinner at a fancy restaurant, and it was a done deal. There wasn’t even time to blink.

  “Sometimes,” her mother had said, “you just know it’s right.”

  Hadley wondered what had made things so right with Ed and so wrong with her real father—so wrong that Hadley had never even been allowed to meet him. So wrong her mother kept no pictures of him at all. Whenever she’d asked her mother what he was like, her mother always said the same thing: He’s not a very nice person. Let’s leave it at that.

  Hadley went to bed early. She lay awake for hours, teetering on the brink of sleep. Now and then a low groan rippled through the walls. Her mother said old houses were like old people—they had tired, creaky bones.

  She tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable, but her mind overflowed with wild thoughts she couldn’t tame. Thoughts about Sydney making a new best friend. About strange dollhouses, and tricycles that moved on their own. About ice-cold hands clawing her ankles. And one-eyed dolls.

  Hadley had just drifted off when something startled her awake. She sat bolt upright. In the slit of space between the floor and her bedroom door, a shadow skittered past her room.

  Six

  Hadley sprang from her bed and flung open the door. An enormous full moon hung suspended in the sky. It bathed the landing in a silvery glow. The scrap of darkness was gone.

  “A rat,” she hissed. What else could it be?

  Hadley wasn’t afraid of rats. She’d made peace with city creatures that skulked out of the sewers after dark. But sewer-dwellers were one thing—houseguests were a different story. If the house was infested with diseased vermin, she might be able to convince Mom to leave and return to their old apartment. And their old life.

  She searched the length of the baseboards looking for an opening, and her eyes settled on the slit beneath the narrow door. The attic. She was suddenly certain that was where the rat had gone. She would search the attic, find the nest, and be packing her bags by morning.

  As she crept down the hall, her body cast a long, lean shadow on the opposite wall. It was distorted, alien-like.

  She arrived at the narrow door and paused before swinging it open. She was worried the old hinges would sound the alarm and wake the entire house. Luckily, Ed’s snoring could drown a jet engine. She gripped the knob and pulled quickly between Ed’s ahhh and guurrl.

  The air was cool and damp. Faint shuffling sounds drifted down from the floor above. The rat must be foraging through the boxes of junk. Carefully, she climbed the steps.

  Reaching the attic, Hadley was suddenly angry for not having thought to bring a device to record the evidence. Who would believe her without proof?

&n
bsp; Pale moonlight filtered through the octagonal windows, illuminating the cramped space. Careful not to startle the creature, Hadley peered in and around the boxes.

  When she found no sign of rodent activity, she pushed the boxes this way and that, desperate to locate the intruder. She practically tore the place apart, no longer caring who she woke, but could find not a single tuft of furry evidence.

  Frustrated, she was about to leave when her gaze settled on an object glowing in the moonlight. Lying on the floor, in plain view, was the eye.

  Hadley picked it up. It glistened like an icy pearl. On the floor in front of her sat the dollhouse. It seemed to her the eye and the house belonged together. Hadley knelt and peered inside.

  In the room above the garage, she saw furniture—a floral sofa, a miniature coffee table, and a bed at the opposite end near the kitchenette. And lying on the bed was a doll—a wooden doll, like a marionette but without strings.

  The doll had snow-white hair knotted into a bun. It wore a white blouse with ruffled sleeves and a pale lavender skirt. The eyes were large and glassy—too large for its delicate face.

  Hadley held the eye beside the doll. It was the right size, only this doll wasn’t missing an eye.

  Inside the main building there were three other dolls—a man, a woman, and a little girl. She hadn’t noticed any of them earlier that day, but then she hadn’t had time to investigate the inside of the house.

  The mother doll sat opposite the father doll on the sofa in the living room. The little girl lay on her bed in the room that was now Hadley’s. The old woman looked like she could be the girl’s grandmother. Not one of the dolls was missing an eye.

  The father doll wore brown pants and a plaid shirt. Hadley smoothed his hair and adjusted his glasses.

  Hadley had never met her real father. She didn’t know the first thing about him. Ed seemed like a good enough guy. He was great with Isaac. And he was trying hard to be friendly to Hadley. But, somehow, it just wasn’t the same.