The Cats in the Doll Shop

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  I find a little open space on one of the tables and lay out my materials. I am going to make a schoolgirl doll. She won’t be a fantasy or a fiction. She’ll be a regular girl just like me. Or Tania.

  Since I helped design and make the very first Nurse Nora, I have some idea about where to begin. I start by securing the orange wool to the doll’s scalp, using glue and adding a few stitches, just to be sure it will stay put. Then I plait the yarn into two neat braids and tie the ends with snippets of black ribbon. I cut out the pieces for a simple costume: gray flannel jumper and white blouse. When I have sewn the pieces together by hand, I slip them on the doll and tie a bit of black velvet ribbon at the neck. That looks pretty.

  “How are you farin’?” Kathleen asks. I look up to see her standing in front of me. She’s wearing her jacket and her hat.

  “Are you going home?” I ask.

  “It’s five thirty,” she says, glancing at the clock on the wall.

  “I’m going to keep working,” I tell her. I got so involved with making the doll that I lost track of the time.

  “Good luck with your dolly,” she says, and heads out the door.

  “It’s almost time for dinner,” Mama says from where she sits by the machine.

  “Just a little while longer,” I plead.

  “All right,” Mama says. “But come up as soon as I call you.” Mama turns off the machine, and Papa puts aside his figures. They go upstairs, and I am alone in the shop, except for Goldie, our pet canary. Canaries are the only pets Papa will allow. He says customers like their singing. We’ve had Goldie for years, but recently, Papa brought home a lady friend for him. Her name is Zahava, which means “Goldie” in Hebrew. My sisters and I think this is so funny: Mr. Goldie and Mrs. Goldie.

  I look in the box Kathleen gave me. Inside I find a few leftover things from back when our shop was for repairing dolls, not making them—a pair of ribbed, white socks, and a pair of shiny, black shoes. The socks are just right, but the shoes are a bit too big. I stuff the toes with crumpled bits of paper. Now they fit fine.

  I hold the doll up and away from me so I can inspect her. The braids are good, and so is the outfit. But it seems to me she needs something more, something that will make it clear that she is a schoolgirl and not just any girl. At once, it hits me. A satchel. The doll should have a satchel, like the ones my sisters and I lug back and forth to and from school every day. A satchel carries books, of course. But it also carries a snack, a note from a friend, a test with a bright red A on top. Satchels carry a sweater, mittens, a forgotten lemon drop you are so happy to find. I wrapped Bernadette Louise in a towel and brought her to school in my satchel. Trudie’s satchel is always filled to bursting. I remember how heavy it was when I stubbed my toe on it earlier today. The more I think about it, the more important the satchel seems. This doll needs a satchel. And it is up to me to make it.

  “Anna! Dinner!” calls Mama. Dinner now? I just got the very best idea I have had all day.

  “Coming,” I call. I set the doll on the table. “I’ll be back,” I whisper. If I can talk to my own doll, I can talk to this one, too.

  I bound up the stairs, shove my hands under the faucet, and sit down at the table. Mama is serving vegetable kugel, which is a noodle pudding, and patties that she made from leftover chicken. It’s a meal I usually love, but tonight, I bolt the food down and beg to be allowed to return to my work downstairs.

  “What are you doing anyway?” Sophie asks. “I haven’t seen you all afternoon.”

  “It’s a surprise,” I tell her. “You’ll see when it’s done.” I turn to my mother. “Please can I go back down, Mama? Just for a little while?”

  “Are your lessons finished?” Papa asks.

  “We don’t have any!” I say happily. “Miss Marsh was out sick today and there was a substitute teacher. She didn’t give us any work to take home.”

  “Well, if Mama says it’s all right . . .” Papa says. I look over at Mama, who nods her head.

  “Thank you!” I say. I get up and take my plate to the sink, where I wash it hastily. Then, it’s back downstairs to the schoolgirl doll I have left on the table. Goldie and Zahava tweet briefly when I enter the shop but soon settle down.

  I am still thinking of the satchel. But how will I make it? I rummage through the box again, and there, at the bottom, is a wadded-up bit of canvas. It’s dull beige, almost the exact color of our satchels. Using Mama’s iron, I press it smooth. Then I sketch a pattern onto the material. Cutting it is hard because the scissors are not strong enough. I keep at it, even though it hurts my hand. Soon, all the pieces are cut.

  Sewing is hard, too. The first needle will not go through the fabric. I have to hunt all over to find a big, thick needle. Best of all is when I go through the box one more time and find a few twisted doll’s belts with tiny gold-colored buckles. I pull the buckles off two of them and attach them to the flap of the satchel. Now it can be opened and closed, just like a real satchel.

  The last thing I want to do is paint a few freckles across her nose, so I find the tubes of paint and a handful of brushes. Choosing a thick one for mixing, I create a color somewhere between orange and brown. Then, using the thinnest brush in the bunch, I dot tiny freckles on the doll’s face. “Anna!” calls Mama. Her voice sounds just a smidgen irritated. “Anna, you need to get ready for bed.”

  “Just in time,” I say to the doll. “Now all you need is a name.” And as soon as I have said those words, the name comes to me: Shannon. Shannon is the name of an Irish river. Kathleen has a sister back in Ireland named for it. She’s told me all about her.

  “Anna!” Mama calls again. “Anna, I do mean now!”

  “I’ll be right there!” I call back. And grabbing Shannon the School Girl under my arm, I flip off all the lights and take the stairs two at a time.

  7

  WELCOME, TANIA

  The next day, I wake up early, before anyone else in the family. I’m just so excited about Tania’s arrival. Quietly, I get dressed and remove Shannon from her hiding place under my pillow. I am just as pleased with the doll this morning as I was last night. Maybe even more. I look at her cheery freckles and pat her orangey-red hair and tuck her way back under the pillow before my sisters wake up. Even though Mama and Kathleen know about the doll, no one has actually seen her yet. I want Tania to be the first.

  At school we have a special assembly during which a group of actors performs a play. It is Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and it is set in a lush forest filled with fairies, spirits, and all kinds of magic. Later, during our geography lesson, we draw maps of Europe. Miss Marsh is back and says my map is so well done that she picks it as an example to show to the whole class. I took special care with drawing and coloring Russia, because that’s where Tania was born. Even our arithmetic lesson is not too bad today. Miss Marsh has brought in several loaves of pound cakes that we have to divide into different fractional pieces. When the lesson is over, we get to eat the cake. It’s delicious.

  Three o’clock comes sooner than I expect. I meet my sisters right outside school, and once again, we race home after school. This time when we get there, Papa is gone—a good sign!—and Mama is in the shop with Kathleen and Michael. Today Michael is whistling while he stacks the boxes. He whistles better than anyone I have ever heard.

  “How did the doll turn out?” Kathleen asks. I know she means to be kind, but I shake my head and whisper, “Not yet.” She nods and doesn’t say anything else about it. Fortunately, neither Sophie nor Trudie seems to have heard her question. Today Kathleen is working on a group of fairy dolls, which have wings made of wire and gauze that attach to their shoulders. She sews a few tiny sequins on each wing. They remind me of Titania, the beautiful queen of the fairies in the play we saw today.

  “When will Papa be home?” Trudie asks.

  “I don’t know,” Mama answers. She turns to Sophie. “Why don’t you girls start your lessons? That way you’ll have gotten some of the
m done before your cousin gets here.” Sophie goes into the kitchen and Trudie follows. I’ll go, too, but first I pause so I can say something to Kathleen.

  “I promise I’ll show you the doll later,” I tell her. “But for now, I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “No need to worry, darlin’,” says Kathleen, head bent over her sewing. “I can keep a secret.” The sequins wink in the light.

  All of a sudden, Mama grabs a roll of muslin, holds it up, and frowns. “What—again?” she says. Kathleen, Michael, and I all look in her direction.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?” I ask.

  “Mice!” exclaims Mama. “They get into everything.” She holds up a roll of muslin that has been chewed at one end.

  “Maybe Ginger Cat could help with the mice,” I say.

  “You know that Papa says cats are for outdoors,” argues Mama. “He doesn’t want a cat living inside the apartment.”

  “But they catch mice,” I point out.

  “That’s true,” she says. “And we need a mouse catcher. . . .”

  She pauses, as if thinking. “Where is the cat now?”

  “I’m not sure. But she’s been coming by for food—the dish is always empty after we’ve filled it. Do you want to see?”

  Together, we walk outside, and sure enough, there is nothing in the saucer. To my surprise, Ginger Cat is sitting in the box right next to it! She looks up at us very prettily, as if to say, “May I please have some more?”

  “Hello kitty,” I say extending my hand to pet her. She startles and darts off.

  “Papa told you not to touch,” Mama scolds. “It’s a good thing she didn’t scratch.”

  “I’m sorry, I forgot. Sitting there like that, she looked so tame.”

  “Well, you have to be careful just the same,” says Mama. “You may not be so lucky next time.”

  “Anna, come quick! They’re here!” Trudie’s words interrupt Mama’s lecture.

  We hurry inside and upstairs, all thoughts of the cats forgotten for the moment. Finally, Tania has arrived. Standing in the kitchen is a slender, shy-looking girl of about my height. Mama rushes over and kisses her twice, once on each cheek. Then she says something to her in Yiddish, but Tania doesn’t answer.

  Mama turns to us. “Girls, meet your cousin Tania,” she says in English. “Tania, this is Sophie. And that’s Anna, and here is Trudie.” She slips into Yiddish, and I am guessing she repeats her introductions so Tania can understand.

  “Hello Tania,” I say. Mama told us not to worry about speaking Yiddish. Tania will need to learn English, so we might as well just start right in. On impulse, I give her a big hug. But I feel her stiffen in my arms, so I let go. I look at her more closely then. She really does have blonde hair, just as I imagined she would. It’s long and thick and would be beautiful were it not so . . . dirty. Her clothes are dirty, too, and I can see crescents of black underneath her fingernails. Well, it must have been hard to stay clean on the boat and Ellis Island, I think, defending her in my own mind. Now that’s she here, she can have a hot bath, and Mama can wash her clothes.

  I glance down at Tania’s feet. She wears boots that are worn and broken. I can see her bare toes peeking out from the holes. Those boots will need more than simple cleaning. Her bag, a battered and worn-looking thing, sits on the floor right next to her. It is small. She has not brought very much with her. I look up, wanting to see her eyes. Are they as blue as I thought they would be? Yes, even more blue, but I only see them for a second. When she catches me looking at her, she quickly looks away.

  “Do you want to see our room?” Trudie asks. Her voice is timid, as if she is a little afraid of Tania.

  Tania doesn’t say anything. Of course not. She can’t understand. Mama repeats Trudie’s question in Yiddish. Tania still doesn’t answer. I want to take her hand to lead her to the room. But after the way she reacted when I hugged her, I am reluctant.

  “Don’t worry, girls,” Mama says. “Tania is just a little shy. She’ll feel more comfortable soon.” She turns to Tania and begins a low, steady stream of Yiddish. Tania doesn’t say anything. She stands there and chews on one of her exceedingly dirty nails and blinks rapidly, as if the sun is shining in her eyes.

  “Let’s give Tania a snack,” Mama says. “And then she can have a nice hot bath.” Mama repeats this in Yiddish. I see Tania glance at the claw-footed bathtub and then glance away. I can’t imagine that she will object. I never saw anyone who needed a bath so badly.

  Mama leads Tania to the sink to wash her hands, and then to the table, where she sets out the fresh raisin cake she has baked for our cousin’s arrival. Sophie, Trudie, and I each have a piece of cake and a tall glass of milk. Tania just looks at the piece Mama has put before her.

  “Do. You. Want. Cake?” Sophie says clearly and slowly. She accompanies these words with a series of gestures. First she points to Tania, then to the cake, and finally to her mouth. She pretends to chew. Tania responds by blinking rapidly. I am beginning to see that this is a nervous habit she has. Sophie seems annoyed when Tania doesn’t understand. But then, Sophie is annoyed by anyone who is not able to grasp things quickly.

  “It’s all right, girls,” Mama says. “Tania will join you if she feels like it.” We start eating our cake, which is so tasty that I ask for another slice. Mama says no, it will spoil my dinner. Tania finally breaks off a tiny piece and gnaws it. Trudie, Sophie, and I finish our cake, and Sophie brings the plates to the sink, where she washes them. Trudie reaches for her satchel. I feel a bit strange, sitting there and watching as Tania stares at her cake without finishing it. Finally, Mama asks me to get her sewing basket in the parlor. I am relieved to have a reason to get up from the table.

  I return with the basket. Tania is not there. Neither is her piece of cake. Maybe she ate it after all. I am guessing she went into the bedroom, to get ready for her bath. The pots of water are heating up on the stove now, and because our tub is in the kitchen, Mama has set up the screen for privacy. Good. That hot bath will surely make Tania feel better. And there’s still Shannon, I think. Maybe Shannon will help.

  I go into our room, where Sophie is curled up on her bed, copying something from her French book. She is studying French this year and makes a big show of telling us that parler means to speak and marcher means to walk. Trudie is sprawled on the floor, doing what looks like fifty arithmetic problems. I should start my own lessons, too. I have a composition to write and another map to complete. Before I get started, I go over to the bed that is Tania’s and pretend to be fluffing the pillow. What I am really doing is making a space for Shannon. I have taken her out of her hiding place under my pillow and plan to put her under Tania’s as a surprise. But when my hand moves around, I feel something crumbly and slightly sticky. I pull out a piece of Mama’s raisin cake.

  “Look,” I say to my sisters, “I found this under Tania’s pillow.”

  “It’s a piece of raisin cake,” Sophie says. “But how did it get there?”

  “I know I didn’t do it,” I say to Sophie. “Did you?” Sophie shakes her head. We both look at Trudie.

  “It wasn’t me,” she says.

  “It must have been Tania,” I say.

  “Why in the world would she do that?” asks Trudie.

  Neither Sophie nor I can think of a good reason for such a thing, and so the question remains unanswered.

  A little while later, Tania comes in from her bath. My sisters and I stop what we are doing to look at her. Her long, gold hair has been washed and combed. Her cheeks are flushed from the hot water, and next to the pink, her eyes seem even bluer than before. She is wearing a clean, though ragged dress, and a pair of shoes that are only a little less worn than her boots. But her blinking, which I noticed earlier, is rapid and constant.

  “I sleep in the bed above yours,” I tell her. Tania just blinks. “We made some space for your things in the cupboard. . . .” Still more blinking. I look at my cousin and sigh. This is going to be harder than I though
t. But then I remember Shannon.

  “I have something for you,” I say, pulling Shannon out from under the pillow. I take care not to move the piece of cake, and reach behind it instead. “It’s a doll.” I hand her to my cousin. “I made her for you.”

  At first, Tania just stares. But after a moment, she reaches out to touch Shannon’s hair and then her face.

  “Go on,” I say. “She’s yours now. You can take her.” I am so glad to see Tania show some interest in something. I know she doesn’t understand my words, but I hope that the sound of my voice will make my meaning clear. And it seems to work. She reaches for the doll.

  “You made her?” Sophie says as she watches Tania with Shannon. “Is that what you were up to all day yesterday?”

  I nod, watching Tania with the doll. She must like her if she’s holding her so tightly, right? And yet she doesn’t smile. Instead, she has a sad, almost desperate look on her face. And she is holding the doll as if she expects someone to take it away from her.

  “She’s darling!” exclaims Trudie. “I love her little satchel. Does it open?” Trudie doesn’t seem to notice Tania’s odd reaction.

  “It does,” I say to Trudie. But my eyes remain on Tania, who presses her face against Shannon’s hair. Tania’s lips quiver, and from her closed eyes, I see tears slowly begin to trickle down her face.

  “Tania’s crying,” Trudie says, staring at our cousin.

  “Maybe she’s tired. Or homesick,” Sophie says. She seems puzzled, too.

  “Maybe,” I say. But somehow I don’t think that’s the reason. Or not all of it anyway. No, I think Tania is crying because she can’t believe the doll is really hers. Maybe she is not used to receiving something so nice.

  “Should we tell Mama?” Trudie asks. Sophie and I look at each other, trying to decide. It turns out we don’t have to. With a very loud sniff, Tania dries her tears on her sleeve and stops crying. Then she turns to go into the kitchen, still holding Shannon as if she will never let her go.