Dolls of War

by Shirley Parenteau

  “You’re doing fine with cooking and the rest, honey,” Papa said, surprising her. “But right now, it’s better for you to live with the Farrells. I know you’ll be a big help.”

  “Of course she will,” the pastor agreed. “Emory told me he’s put in a big Victory Garden. Growing vegetables is a good way to help the war effort and work off whatever’s bothering you. I’ll just bet you’d be good at gardening, Macy.”

  He looked as if he expected her to smile. She felt as if she might never smile again.

  Deep inside, a plan was forming. She would go to the beach and live with strangers. But she wasn’t leaving Miss Tokyo here where someone might take her out and burn her. Miss Tokyo was going to live with the Farrells, too. With luck, they would never know she was there.

  I’m going to miss you something awful,” Lily said on Sunday as she picked at a loose thread on Macy’s bedspread.

  Macy studied the pile of dresses she had laid out beside Lily. “I wish I knew how long I’ll be gone. Maybe I won’t need all these.”

  “You’ll be back soon,” Lily told her. “The war can’t last much longer.”

  Macy thought she might be wrong. The radio news accounts and the terrible stories in the papers made it sound like the war would never end. “Papa says I do things without talking them over with him, but what’s the point of talking when I already know his answer?”

  Lily looked confused. “He won’t care how many dresses you pack. Will he?”

  “No.” Macy hesitated, wondering how much to confide in Lily. “I was thinking of Miss Tokyo, of asking to take her with me.”

  Lily looked at her with the clear light of honesty shining from her eyes. “You can’t take her. She’s museum property, not yours.”

  “I want her to be safe.”

  “She won’t be. As soon as you leave, men will burn or bury her. There’s nothing you can do, Macy. That doll just gets you into trouble. Tell her good-bye. You have to, Macy. You know that.”

  Macy wrestled with her conscience. The men who hated Miss Tokyo would be criminals for destroying city property if they burned her. By removing the doll, she’d be saving them from jail!

  “You have a funny look on your face,” Lily said. “You’re not still thinking about taking the doll?”

  “I dreamed last night,” Macy answered softly. “People were standing around in a circle shouting, ‘Burn! Burn!’ When I got closer, I saw the bonfire with Miss Tokyo on top. I felt something wet hit my hand and looked up. There was Mama, watching from the clouds. Tears fell from her eyes like rain, splashing the bonfire, but they couldn’t stop Miss Tokyo from burning.”

  “That’s your mind telling you that you can’t save the doll,” Lily said in her most practical voice. “You have to forget about her, Macy. She doesn’t matter to your mama anymore. She’s passed on. And your father is curator. He can’t remove anything from the museum, even if it is in danger.”

  “He could . . .” If he was loaning it for a display somewhere. Lily was her best friend, but Lily’s honesty might push her to say more than she should to Papa. So she said only to herself, I’m going to take Miss Tokyo where I can keep her safe until I can bring her back.

  Lily helped her pack for a long stay away, then hugged her as fiercely as if she never expected to see her again. “Write to me! Promise!”

  “I promise. You write to me, too.”

  “I will!” After another tearful hug, Lily ran down the stairs that to Macy already felt almost alien, as if they had never been part of her life. She forced herself to finish packing before carrying a blanket down and leaving it at the bottom.

  She was making sandwiches to take with them on the drive to the coast when the telephone rang in the next room. Papa left to answer. Macy grabbed the blanket from the stairs, paused to be sure Papa was still talking on the phone, then dashed across to the museum storeroom.

  For once, she didn’t speak to Miss Tokyo, just hauled the packing box toward her, pushed open the lid, and lifted out the doll. Moving quickly, she shoved the box back into place on its lower shelf. She rolled the blanket around the doll, her heart pounding so loudly in her ears she wondered if she would hear Papa if he did come into the museum.

  She grabbed Mama’s journal from the shelf where she kept it. Since storing Miss Tokyo, Macy had been writing all her notes to Mama while down here visiting the doll in her box. There would be a lot to write about now.

  She shoved the journal into her skirt pocket.

  Papa mustn’t find her here. She couldn’t even imagine how upset he would be, but she knew Miss Tokyo would be lost if she went to the beach without her. I’m doing the right thing, Mama, she said silently. I know you agree. I can feel it.

  With the doll in the blanket balanced against her shoulder, she hurried up the stairs and out the back door of the museum to the car. There was no room in the trunk for Miss Tokyo. Papa would be bringing her two big suitcases. Besides, he might discover the doll when he put the suitcases in.

  The backseat, then.

  She shifted the doll to one arm and struggled to open the car door.

  Papa shouted from the porch, “They’ll have blankets. You don’t need to take your own. It’s not a camping trip.”

  “I’m used to mine,” Macy called. “I’ll sleep better with my blanket from home.”

  “I understand.” Sadness crossed Papa’s face. She thought he was going to say something more, but he simply shook his head before coming over and opening the rear door to the car. “Looks like you’re taking your pillow, too.”

  “I’m used to my pillow.” That wasn’t a lie. She was used to her pillow. She would miss it, but she wasn’t taking it.

  “Put them across the seat,” he said. “Here, I’ll do it.”

  “I can do it.” Quickly, she leaned into the car with the blanketed doll. As she hoisted it in, she lost her balance and nearly fell into the car.

  The bundle dropped from her hands onto the seat. A corner of the blanket fell open. A patch of blue silk gleamed in the dim light.

  Macy jerked the blanket into place. Her entire body tensed. Papa might have seen the kimono. She braced inwardly, waiting for him to shout at her to put the doll back.

  From across the street, their neighbor Mrs. Randolph called, “Mr. James!”

  Macy sensed Papa stepping back and turning away. Relief crashed through her. She grasped the door frame to keep from falling into the car after all.

  “You have a bit of a drive ahead,” Mrs. Randolph said, hurrying closer. “I’ve brought some molasses cookies still warm from my oven. They’ll give you something to munch on during the trip.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Papa said. He looked at Macy as if waiting for her to thank their neighbor.

  Macy’s thoughts were in the car with the doll, spinning from fear to relief and back again. For a moment, her mind went blank. The good smell rising from the bag with a promise of warm cookies reminded her to smile at Mrs. Randolph. “Yes, thank you. I love your molasses cookies!”

  The neighbor patted Macy’s shoulder. “You drive safely now, you two. You’ll be missed around here, Macy. Never think you won’t be.”

  Macy hugged her, feeling her eyes getting teary. It was easy to forget that most people were nice while you worried about the ones who weren’t. She was glad Mrs. Randolph had reminded her.

  A boy’s voice called from the street, “Got an extra cookie in there?”

  Macy let Mrs. Randolph go, surprised to see Christopher Adams. He shoved his hands into his back pockets. “Some of us are going to miss you at school.”

  She wanted to ask who “some of us” were but suspected it was only Lily. Maybe Christopher. She still wasn’t sure she could trust him. She glanced around for Rachel or Mark.

  Papa said, “We need to get started.”

  “Well, good-bye,” Macy told Christopher. On impulse, she grabbed a cookie from the bag and handed it to him.

  “Yeah.” He held the cookie witho
ut tasting it while she climbed into the car, then called, “That was brave, guarding the doll that day we all came to the museum. Dumb. But brave.”

  Macy stuck out her tongue at him as Papa started the engine. Then she remembered doing the same thing last Christmas. A snowflake had landed on her tongue. She couldn’t help smiling at the memory and saw Christopher grin as the car pulled away.

  Like the Cheshire Cat, she told herself, but with a quick inner warning. The Cheshire Cat wasn’t always a friend to Alice in Wonderland.

  She was more worried about Miss Tokyo. As Papa’s Plymouth rode smoothly past the flat valley and into rolling hills where clumps of mistletoe clung to bare tree branches like forgotten bouquets, Macy struggled with her conscience.

  What else could I do? she demanded of herself as the road climbed through the Coast Range, where the trees had green needles year-round. Moss-covered fallen logs and thick green ferns hid the forest floor.

  Miss Tokyo would be burned if I left her in the museum. Lily’s right. Men are planning to come for the doll.

  Macy resisted peering over the seat to the blanket that covered Miss Tokyo. Call her Miss T, she told herself. She’ll be safer if I forget and mention her if I just call her Miss T. Everybody hates Tokyo right now.

  She felt as if Mama spoke in her gentle voice. You’ve done the right thing, love, she was saying. You must keep Miss Tokyo safe.

  “I will.” Macy pressed the journal through her pocket. “I always will.” Turning, she gazed through the car window at light rain falling over the dark damp forest and thought of her dream, where Mama’s tears from heaven could not save the doll from a bonfire.

  But I will save her. For the moment, at least, her conscience was silent. She had done what she had to do. Papa would understand. But she couldn’t tell him, not just yet.

  As they came down from the Coast Range into flat dairy country, Macy’s attention was caught by construction at the back of a field. Men were building a structure bigger than any barn she had ever seen. The men looked about the size of ants. Even their equipment looked like toys against the enormous structure. “What are they building, Papa?”

  He said quietly, “That’s a blimp hangar.”

  “A blimp?” The pastor had mentioned that word.

  “An airship,” Papa said. “Like an enormous oval balloon. You’ve heard of zeppelins? A cabin attached below holds the pilot and crew. That hangar will shelter as many as eight of the ships.”

  “Why?” She turned in her seat to look back at the blimp hangar.

  Papa didn’t answer at first. When she looked at him, she saw that his expression was as tight as when war news came over the radio, news he wanted to hear but didn’t think she should know. Papa thought that knowing about blimps would worry her.

  He must have decided she would learn anyway, because he did answer. “The blimps will patrol the coast. They’ll fly above the surf . . . to keep us safe.”

  Safe? He meant safe from submarines. The men who flew in the cabins beneath the blimps would be looking for Japanese submarines bringing the war to beaches here. Suddenly, the war felt even scarier than when it was just news over the radio.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Papa said with a glance toward her. “The blimp hangars and the activity you’ll see around the Coast Guard headquarters farther up the coast at Garibaldi are there for protection. You should feel safe because the brave men of our country are alert for trouble and ready to defend us if necessary.”

  Macy wanted to feel comforted, the way she used to feel when Papa looked into the closet and joked about shooing away a monster who only wanted a peek at a human child.

  This monster might not be shooed away so easily. She thought of Miss Tokyo, riding along in the backseat. It rained a lot at the coast. Maybe a bonfire to burn an enemy doll would fizzle out.

  As the miles rolled on, Macy wasn’t soothed by the warm car or by the wipers whipping back and forth or even by Papa beside her. The closer she got to the small beach town called Rockaway, only twenty miles north of Tillamook, the less bringing Miss Tokyo felt like a rescue. Now it felt like an impossible responsibility, one Macy was beginning to think she should never have taken on.

  The few cars on the road had the top halves of their headlights blacked out so their light would go down but not forward. Macy wondered if that would keep a submarine from noticing a highway along the coast.

  After passing the Coast Guard station and traveling over a rocky headland, Macy could hear waves crashing onto rocks. A little farther out and even in the rainy dark, she could see the white line of breakers crashing over and rolling onto the sand.

  I’m going to live with nice people, she assured herself. Pastor wouldn’t send me to them unless they were kind. They probably like dolls. They’ll understand that a doll had nothing to do with the war. I’ll be able to tell them how Mama and I talked for Miss Tokyo and shared the pictures in Mama’s big book.

  Macy was so caught up in her thoughts, she barely noticed several tiny beach towns, one after another, until Papa turned off the highway and down a long graveled road with trees along one side and a flat darkness that might have been a field or a garden on the other.

  After turning to the right, Papa parked beside a gate.

  “The Farrells aren’t expecting us,” Macy said, looking through the car window at the dark bulk of a house at the end of a gravel walkway. “Maybe they’ve already gone to bed.”

  “They’ve closed the blackout curtains,” Papa explained, opening the car door. “The curtains are used every night here, not just for drills.”

  “Oh.” Macy’s voice sounded much smaller than the hammer of rain pelting the roof of the car. If only Papa would turn them around and drive right back to Stanby. He wouldn’t. She was here and had to stay, but she had hoped for a warm welcoming hug, not this silent dark house looming two stories high against the deepening night. The chimney didn’t even show sparks with the promise of a warm fire in the stove below.

  Papa knocked hard on the door. “Emory?”

  The door opened a crack, then wider, revealing a stern face. “Come in, quickly. We can’t let out any more light than we have to. The blackout, you know.”

  “We know, Emory. We have drills in the valley.” Papa urged Macy into the house with a hand on her shoulder, though she wanted to run back to the car. He added to the man who held the door barely wide enough for them to pass, “Your neighbor must not have gotten that message.”

  The man named Emory leaned out to look across the road at a small house where light slanted from the corner of a window. To Macy, it looked as if the blackout curtain had gotten hung up on something.

  “That old fool,” Emory exclaimed. “Sometimes I wonder if old Mr. Oakes hopes to guide the whole Jap navy to us.” After grabbing a baton from somewhere to his left, he rushed toward his neighbor’s house.

  Moments later, they heard his baton rapping against the neighbor’s window. “Lights out!” he shouted. “Lights out!”

  Macy shivered and thought again of running back to the warm, friendly car.

  Before she could plead with Papa, a woman came through the dimly lit interior of the big house and took Macy’s cold hands in her warm ones. “Never mind, dear. Mr. Farrell takes his duties as air raid warden very seriously. As he should.”

  She turned to Papa. “Our neighbor across the street is the burden we have to shoulder. The poor old fellow can’t seem to remember to check his curtains after closing them.”

  “People have trouble believing enemy troops will come here,” Papa said. Macy felt his quick glance, as if wanting to reassure her before he added, “Who can blame them? Our armed forces are on guard.”

  “And Mr. Farrell,” Macy couldn’t resist saying.

  Papa’s hand tightened over her shoulder in warning, but Mrs. Farrell smiled. “She has a sense of humor. Lovely. We need some laughter around here.”

  She glanced down at Macy’s hands. “Goodness, child, you feel half fr
ozen. Come in by the fire and warm yourself.”

  When Macy started into the house, one foot banged so painfully into solid metal she felt as if stars flew up from her toes. Gasping, she stumbled forward.

  “Oh dear, that’s our sand bucket.” Mrs. Farrell’s voice filled with apology. “You’ll get used to low lighting. Even with the curtains, we don’t risk keeping the rooms any brighter than necessary.”

  “Sand?” Macy could feel grains beneath her feet, gritty on the linoleum floor. She must have knocked them from the bucket, but who kept sand in the house?

  She tried to imagine the Farrells playing in sand — maybe building castles. No, that image matched Mama, not the people here.

  Mrs. Farrell explained. “Along the coast, we all keep sand by the door these days. “We’ll use it to put out fires caused by bombs when . . . if . . . enemy planes get through.”

  She reached behind the door for a broom and dustpan. Looking as if she’d had a lot of practice, she swept up the spilled grains and dumped them back into the bucket.

  “Keeping sand off the floor and in the bucket can be a little job for you while you’re with us, dear.”

  “Okay.” Macy felt as if she’d walked into a strange world where she didn’t belong and didn’t want to be. She couldn’t stay here until the war ended.

  Mrs. Farrell led her to a potbellied woodstove with a low fire burning inside. No revealing sparks would be escaping up this chimney, Macy told herself, remembering the dark chimney against the sky. She held her hands near the cast iron, trying to warm them.

  The front door cracked open and Mr. Farrell slipped through. “That old fool will guide the bombers right to us. Some folks are wondering if that’s his plan.”

  “Oh, not old Del,” Mrs. Farrell exclaimed. “He has a good heart. You know he does, dear. He’s just at a forgetful age.”

  “If he doesn’t keep his blackout curtains closed, the rest of us may not have the chance to reach that age,” her husband warned.

  These were the kind people Pastor Wells had chosen for her? Macy looked from one to the other. Mrs. Farrell seemed nice, but Mr. Farrell . . . To use their words about their neighbor, Mr. Farrell was going to be a burden she would have to shoulder. She glanced at Papa, wishing she could share that thought but knowing he wouldn’t appreciate it.